


The Other Side of Paradise

by nostalgic90s



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Come Eating, Comeplay, Daddy Kink, Drink Spiking, Drugged Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, Heavy Angst, HornyHomicidalTeenagers who don't know any better, Jeremiah and Jerome grow up together at Haly's Circus, M/M, Mental Instability, Mild Blood, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Fixation, Poor confused baby Bruce, Porn with Feelings, Power bottom Jeremiah, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - M/M/M, Trauma, Underage Rape/Non-con, Voyeurism, Wayeskacest, Wayleska Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2020-10-18 01:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic90s/pseuds/nostalgic90s
Summary: If Bruce could describe Jeremiah’s expression, it would be like nails scraping across a chalkboard. The smile looks wrong. There’s no emotion behind it. There’s no compassion, or playfulness. It’s a well-dressed storefront hiding empty shelves. A forgery that’s fooled others before, but to Bruce, it’s unsettling.“After you,” Jeremiah nods in Jerome’s direction.“Okay…” Disregarding his gut instinct, Bruce exits the tent first, Jeremiah close in tow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OMG THIS IS MY FIRST WAYLESKA FANFIC!!! Question. Does Wayleska refer to Bruce and Jeremiah exclusively? Or can the ship name apply to Jerome too? Idk. In this case I'm using it to refer to both.
> 
> Okay, so originally I was going to write this in ONE go. BUT it ended up being way too long, and when I tried to get to the smut scenes, it just felt RUSHED. I decided to go for a slow build, and reveal bits and pieces of life at Haly's Circus. As for the underage tag, I'm not going to reveal Bruce's age, y'all can decide that one for yourselves :p
> 
> My apologies for taking THIS FRIGGIN' long to write something. It's been well over a month since I wrote anything. Work has been stressful, and I recently came down with the flu e_e still recovering.
> 
> Next chapter coming soon! It's basically just porn without plot, and pleeeenty of it~ If you're already uncomfortable with the idea of the twins drugging and having their way with poor baby Bruce then you're probably not going to want to subscribe to this one. Just a friendly warning.

Glowing, amber eyes observe the man standing in the center of the stage.

The ringleader, dawning his signature red tailcoat, white leather pants, black knee-high boots, and matching top hat, has his attention trained on the predator across from him.

Besides the colorful attire, everything about the man is aesthetically pleasing. Warm ivory skin, scarlet-dusted freckles, a jawline for days, and a lithe frame entirely composed of lean muscle. He has a youthful air about him, including his gravitation towards danger. There isn’t a hint of fear in those striking eyes of his.

Man and beast move in a slow, cautionary circle, sizing each other up and calculating the risk of an attack.

From outside the stage, an acrobatic performer tosses a metal hoop to the ringleader.

A gloved hand snaps, catching the hoop midair.

The sound and gesture startle the tiger, forcing her ears flat against her head, and she hisses warningly, bearing her vampirish fangs.

Spectators hold their breath.

The ringleader grins, causing some of the female audience to swoon and giggle. He retrieves a Bic lighter from his pants pocket and positions it under the hoop.

The tiger watches.

**CLICK.**

A whooshing sound ensues as flames devour the metal hoop. Meanwhile, the tiger shrinks away in terror and rushes towards the mass of people.

“Diam!” the man shouts.

The command falls on the tiger’s ears and suddenly, she is very, very still.

“Berbalik dan duduk.”

The large predator turns around and sits on her haunches, externally calm.

Entranced, the crowd watches, a series of _ooohs_ and _ahhhs_ echoing throughout the giant tent.

Gripping the burning hoop in his flame-resistant glove, the ringleader raises the object above his head and holds it there.

“Oh, my God” a girl says.

“No fucking way…. Can a tiger jump that high?” a guy nudges his friend.

The ringleader holds up his hand to shush the audience.

Everybody falls silent.

Whiskers twitch and a tail flicks. The tiger waits.

Inhaling a deep breath, the ringleader shouts “Melompat!”

The tiger dashes across the floor with balletic grace, shoulders bunched and muscles rippling.

People gasp and point.

Children close their eyes.

The man doesn’t so much as bat an eye when the tiger runs at him.

For a brief second, they lock gazes.

Two bright orbs of doubloon-gold meet emerald gemstones.

The tigress jumps at him.

It’s a spectacle to behold, watching a tiger soar through the air. The hoop itself is moderately sized, big enough to fit her bulk without singeing any fur.

Her mighty forelimbs are the first to cut through the hoop. In passing, her colors seem to ignite, a combustible mix of ember-orange and gunpowder-black. She effortlessly glides through the burning structure and executes a solid landing afterwards. As a reaction to potential danger, her retractile claws emerge from their furry pouches.

Lowering the flaming hoop, the ringleader extends his gloved hand.

The tiger rushes over to the hand and nudges her head underneath it, like a big, lovable, dangerous house-cat.

“Take a bow, Angel~” he coos.

Man and beast turn to the audience and bow their heads.

Wild cheers and applause erupt inside the circus tent.

The ringleader is basking in their praise and cheer, that is, until an angry voice bellows out.

“IMPOSTOR!”

The noise settles down and both ringleader and spectators turn their heads towards the voice.

A man, dressed in identical attire as the ringleader, climbs on stage and he points an accusing finger. “FRAUD! LIAR! THIEF!”

It takes a couple moments before the crowd notices a weird detail about the two men: They’re _identical_. Literally. From their outrageous outfits, all the way to their gorgeous green eyes and red hair.

“Blimey! Look at that!” says Alfred.

“I wonder if they’re twins?” Bruce figures it could be clever makeup effects.

“Fraud? I can assure you monsieur, I am _no_ fraud.” The man scratches the tiger’s ear, eliciting a soft growl. He chucks the flaming object off the stage, where another performer extinguishes it with water.

The second ringleader clenches his jaw and balls up his fists. “You tied me up! Stole my clothes! AND locked me inside my own wardrobe! You Sir, are _scum!_” He motions for the tiger, “Leave that impostor, now!”

The tiger scurries over to the second man and pushes into his hip, a purr emanating from her throat.

“Ouch, my heart!” The first ringleader feigns sadness.

The second ringleader sniffs the air, his nose scrunching up at a distinct aroma. “AH! I know how you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Control my dear Angel here,” he pulls a tuft of fur from the tiger’s head and raises it to his nose. “You have fish oil on your gloves.”

“Preposterous!” The first ringleader shakes his head. “I don’t need tricks! My babies love me! Isn’t that right Angel?” He wiggles his fingers, trying to lure her.

The tiger strolls back over to the first ringleader and noses into his chest.

“SEE! SEE RIGHT THERE!” The second ringleader stares at the audience and points. “He’s using food to bait the tiger! He’s no ringleader!”

“D-don’t be silly,” the first ringleader stammers. He tries to push the tiger away from his chest.

Growing impatient, the tiger paws at the man, her claws sticking to his clothes.

“O-okay, enough-”

Out of nowhere, the predator opens her powerful jaw and clamps down on the man’s dress shirt.

“GAH! LET GO!” The ringleader shoves and shoves, but to no avail; the tiger won’t release.

The second ringleader smirks, “Does the charlatan need help?”

“No! I can handle this!” Realizing he can’t get the tiger off, the man sighs in defeat. He reaches behind himself, dips a hand underneath the tailcoat, and retrieves a hefty salmon. He pitches the dead fish across the floor, encouraging the tiger to let go and chase after the tasty snack.

Smirking triumphantly, the second ringleader addresses the fishy man. “Get off _my_ stage.”

Imitating the snide expression, the first ringleader responds, “Make me.”

“Ooooh!!!!” The crowd feeds off their energy and the challenge has them bristling in excitement.

The man tuts, “Very well.” Holding out his right hand, he addresses his troupe. “Weapon, please!”

Somebody pitches a fencing sword.

He catches the blade, tucks his left hand behind his back, and takes his stance. “En garde!”

“Oh, two can play at that game!” The first ringleader points to a man dressed up as a clown. “You, weapon, NOW!”

The clown scrambles over to an old trunk and yanks the hatch open. He reaches inside, grips a similar fencing sword, and flings it over.

Throwing his right hand out, the redhead catches the weapon in his right hand and assumes a fighting stance. However, the blade itself droops awkwardly, as though made of rubber. “What the hell?” The first ringleader appears confused.

“Hah! May the best man win!” No sooner did the words leave his mouth, the second ringleader attacks.

“AH!” The first ringleader barely ducks his head in time to avoid the sharp blade. Reflexes kick in, prompting him to strike the identical man in the face.

**SMACK!**

The sound of rubber slapping skin reverberates throughout the tent.

People explode into hysterical fits of laughter.

Bruce giggles away, while Alfred shakes his head, amused grins plastered on both of them.

The attack takes the man by surprise. He blinks, looks out to the laughing crowd, his face flushes deep red. He furrows his eyebrows and glares at the other redhead, grip tightening around the hilt. “You’re going to regret that!” He lunges at the imposter.

Radiating confidence, the first ringleader sniggers and steps out of the way. “Too slow! Sheesh, you fight like my grandma!” He slaps the rubber sword against the other guy’s butt.

**SMACK!**

Turning around, seething red, the second ringleader growls. “I’ve fought your grandma, that’s a compliment!” He jolts forward, moving close enough to stab the sharp end of his blade into the other man’s belt. He jerks the blade sideways, ripping into the belt and hemline of his pants.

Suddenly, the guy’s pants fall, exposing his pink Hello Kitty boxer briefs.

The crowd loses it then, more so the children who are familiar with the brand.

“Close your eyes master B.” Alfred moves his hand to block Bruce’s view.

“A-Alfred!” Bruce can scarcely talk; he’s laughing way too hard.

“THIS ISN’T OVER!” Humiliated, the first ringleader discards the useless sword and attempts to flee the scene. He ends up tripping and plummeting off stage in a comical way, due to his pants constricting around his ankles.

More laughter. People are in hysterics. Tears are falling but they’re the good kind of tears, the kind that predetermined the show as a successful hit - even though it was only the opening act.

The second ringleader remains on stage, smug in his victory.

“It’s not funny!” the flustered man barks. He stands, grips his pants, and pulls them up to hide his embarrassing choice of underwear. He frantically searches for his top hat, only to see it in the hands of an adoring fan.

The woman is dressed in a pink crop top, low hip hugger jeans, her strawberry blonde hair tied in a messy bun, and she twirls the top hat between purple acrylic nails. “Looking for this?~”

“Looking for what?” The redhead struts over to the first row of seats. He leans over the wooden railing and flashes the woman a smile.

“Um, your hat?” She giggles at the flirtatious smile and inclines, nearly touching noses with the handsome man. “You know…. Pink is my _favorite_ color~”

“Is it now?” He wiggles his eyebrows and lifts a hand to trace a finger underneath her jaw; his other hand holds up his pants. “Mmm… Should we meet up after the show? We can uh, discuss our mutual love for the color pink~” 

Leaning into the touch, the woman nods. “I’d love-”

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

An older, gruffer voice shatters the cheerful atmosphere.

The two redheads look over to see a bulky man stumbling across the stage, while attempting to rip duct tape off his wrists.

Curious onlookers examine the new guy, who happens to be wearing the SAME exact outfit as the twins. This man, however, is older, pudgier, and has dark olive skin and a short-trimmed beard.

“What are you fools doing?!” The third ringleader screams at the other performers.

Clowns and acrobats alike flinch away from their leader.

Picking up on the tension, Angel flattens her ears and quickly saunters off stage to hide behind one of the other animal handlers.

“You _know_ me!” the disgruntled man continues. “It’s me, Owen Lloyd, founder, owner, ringleader, I’m the BOSS! How could you NOT notice my lack of presence on stage?! I ALWAYS RUN THE FIRST ACT!”

The troupe murmurs out apologies, most of them avoiding eye contact.

Bruce prods Alfred with a finger-poke, “This is all an act?”

The butler nods, “Yes, albeit a clever one.”

Owen removes the last piece of duct tape from his wrist and he whirls around on his booted heels, nostrils flaring angrily. “GET THEM!”

All the performers scramble onto the platform and they rush at the two imposters.

The second ringleader gasps and hastily bolts off stage, heading straight into the crowded bleachers.

The first ringleader grabs his top hat and pecks the woman’s cheekbone with a kiss. “Sorry toots, gotta bounce!”

“Aww, really?” She pouts and watches the redhead disappear underneath the wooden bleachers.

Owen Lloyd apologies for the brief disruption and the show resumes.

From daring acrobatic routines, to the mystical snake-charming woman, the crowd eats the performances up.

By the time they reach the final act - involving a masked individual who magically teleports into all sorts of random places inside the big tent - the fans are raging with applause. There’s a red top hat floating around the bleachers, and people happily donate their money, wanting to show their appreciation for such marvelous entertainment.

Bruce reaches into his pocket and retrieves a few large bills.

Alfred glances at the hundred-dollar bills, feeling a tad worried. “That’s a bit much, ennit?”

“It’s a great show,” the boy remarks. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I believe I have to.” Alfred doesn’t have a say in how Bruce spends his money. He provides no further commentary.

When the red top hat comes their way, Bruce deposits the money inside and hands the hat off to another person. “I’m going to go find those two actors and thank them personally.”

“What for?” Alfred furrows his bushy gray eyebrows.

“Their hilarious routine, I haven’t laughed that much since…” Bruce trails off and he avoids looking at the butler. “… It’s been awhile.”

Guilt and pity stab Alfred in the chest and he clears his throat with a cough. “Ahem, very well Master B. Take your time, I’ll wait for you at the car. Better yet, I’ll grab us some of that garbage food you were eyeing on the way in.”

Bruce lights up at the suggestion and a grin curls his lips. “A large soda too?”

“Oi, don’t push your luck.” Alfred stands, as does his young ward. “I’ll consider a small soda.”

“Fair enough.” Bruce is already descending the steps and pushing through the crowd.

Unlike the adolescent boy, Alfred isn’t in a rush. He considers strolling through the circus grounds, and possibly visiting the famed fortuneteller – he doesn’t believe in that kind of rubbish, but getting his palm read or his fortune predicted might help pass the time.

* * *

Animal handlers tend to their creatures by escorting them back to their cages; predators are kept in a separate area for obvious reasons, while the vegetarians return to their own encloses.

In a green tent filled with portable AC’s, a certain redhead finds himself struggling with a rambunctious tiger.

“Hey, hey, hey! My hand is NOT a chew toy!” Jerome tugs his hand out of the tiger’s mouth.

Angel trills and paws at Jerome’s arm.

“Sheesh, hang on a sec.” The redhead unbuckles his leather belt and slides it off his waist. He dangles the belt in front of Angel, who eagerly accepts the new toy by chomping down on it and ripping it out of Jerome’s hand.

Jeremiah is holding the cage door open and he makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “Dalam.”

Angel canters up a wooden ramp and enters her cage without fuss. She settles down in the corner and begins gnawing on the leather belt.

“Is she teething again?” Jeremiah inquires, closing the door afterwards and locking it.

“Might be.” Jerome is disappointed to lose another belt – he needs to pester Owen to buy rawhide toys, or something else for the animals to chew on; the younger ones are teething like crazy.

In the background, a wave of chattering voices fills the area. People are swarming out of the big tent and now roaming the circus grounds.

“Welp, sounds like the shows over.” Jerome walks over to another cage where two hyenas are confined.

The spotted hyenas, Bud and Lou, raise their heads and watch Jerome, their black noses twitching.

“Lock looks good, sneaky lil bastards chewed through it last time.” Jerome taps the steel lock.

“Of course,” Jeremiah chimes in, “I told you that lock is impenetrable.” After several breakouts, Owen finally relented adhered to Jeremiah’s suggestion by purchasing new steel locks for the animal cages. The ringleader was a cheapskate and he’d buy rusty old locks if it could save him a few dollars.

One of the hyenas’ whines for a treat.

The sound elicits a smirk and Jerome shoves his hands into his pants pockets.

The gesture catches the attention of the hyenas. The predators sit up, ears erect, their dark eyes focusing on the two-legged being across from them.

Jeremiah crosses his arms and leans against Angel’s cage, an amused smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. He knew what was coming because he’d witnessed it previously; Jerome was trying a new act with the hyenas, something that combines stand-up comedy and beasts of prey.

“So,” Jerome starts, “I bought some shoes from a drug dealer. I don’t know what the guy _laced_ em’ with but I’ve been tripping all day!”

Jerome’s raised voice cues the hyenas and they let out peals of high-pitch laughter.

The one-liner is cheesy, as are most of Jerome’s jokes and it has Jeremiah rolling his eyes.

Jerome chortles and before he can retrieve the treats from his pockets, another voice joins in on the hilarity.

From the opening in the tent, a half-suppressed laugh escapes, resulting in the twins’ startlement. They turn and gape at the uninvited stranger.

Even the spotted the hyenas hush and study the unfamiliar human.

Bruce covers his mouth to stifle his laughter and his eyes go wide like saucers when the twins look at him. He lowers his hands and quickly apologizes. “S-sorry for barging in! I wanted to congratulate you both on your full house and to thank you for one of the funniest performances I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing.”

The redheads look at each other and exchange inquisitive expressions. Odd. Nobody thanks them, let alone compliments their work.

Jerome speaks first. “It’s all good kid! Don’t gotta apologize, we’re always happy to do a meet-and-greet with our fans, especially the cute ones~” He plucks two dog treats from his pockets and tosses them to the hyenas – the hyenas have to survive off cheap dog food until they can afford a cow to butcher.

Bud and Lou have no complaints whatsoever. They pick up the bone-shaped treats and scarf them down; the taste produces satisfied titters from the furry beasts.

“That’s a relief,” Bruce smiles, unaffected by the flirtatious remark. People call him cute all the time, mostly older women and sometimes Selina, when she’s being sarcastic. “At first glance, I thought it was make-up and special effects but now…” His blue eyes travel from one redhead, to the other, “I can see my theory was wrong. You two really _are_ identical twins.”

“Right on the money kid!” Jerome ambles on over to the raven-haired male and extends his right hand. “Name’s Jerome Valeska.”

“A pleasure to meet you Mr. Valeska.” Bruce takes Jerome’s hand and shakes it twice. “I’m Bruce.”

“Brucie~” Jerome lets the name roll of his tongue and he squeezes the boy’s hand before letting go. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, “That guy over there is my little brother, Jeremiah.”

“Little?” Bruce repeats skeptically.

Jeremiah moves over and joins his brother by his side. “Yes, three minutes and forty-two seconds to be exact.” He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, taking in Bruce’s appearance more closely. The younger male is dressed in a gray, button-up, cashmere sweater with a white dress shirt underneath, accentuated by a burgundy necktie. His black slacks are ironed to perfection, not a single crease exposed, and his black oxfords appear brand new. Somebody took a great deal of time to care for, and arrange the Bruce’s hair; there’s a side part on the left, and the scent of expensive hair products floated off him. Whoever this kid was, he was _loaded_.

Jerome must’ve been thinking the same thing because he’s looking at Bruce like how a hungry hound might look at a tiny, helpless fox. They are DEFINITELY on different levels of socioeconomic status. The twins are wearing hand-me-down jeans, but Jeremiah pairs his look with a blue dress shirt and a pale-yellow tie. Jerome, on the other hand, has a black muscle t-shirt and an unbuttoned red flannel thrown over it. In contrast to Bruce, their clothes have wrinkles, and the color is faded, damaged over time. Instead of expensive cologne, they smell like the circus – depending on what time of the day it is, it could range from hay and animals, to sweat and shit.

Bruce shifts awkwardly, unsure what to make of the silence. He decides to interject a new topic. “Correct me if I’m wrong, were you speaking Indonesian earlier?”

“You _know_ Indonesian? Damn. That’s pretty impressive.” Jerome is mocking Bruce, who couldn’t tell, but Jeremiah could hear the sardonic tone. “Lemme guess, they teach you different languages at yer fancy, private school?”

“No, I don’t attend school.”

Jeremiah quirks an eyebrow, “You’re homeschooled?”

Bruce’s nose wrinkles and he glances down, bashful almost.

Jerome feels his heart throb. He finds Bruce’s mannerisms sickeningly cute and he doesn’t know whether or not he wants to rough the kid up, or better yet, throw him a cage and treat him like the baby lamb he is.

“Yes. One of my tutors is from Indonesia and I’ve picked up a few phrases here and there, especially when he takes a call from home.” The younger male gives a slight shrug.

“Rude! What kinda tutor takes a call and ignores their pupil?” Jerome asks, while throwing an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and pulling him closer. The ginger leans in, tracing the sensitive outer edge of Bruce’s ear with his lips as he murmurs. “I could show you things yer teachers could only ever _dream_ about~”

The proximity and Jerome’s unusual choice of words cause Bruce’s heart to flutter erratically. He tenses and bites down on his bottom lip, carefully avoiding eye contact. Was Jerome coming onto him? No, no that couldn’t be it! He was just teasing, so there was absolutely no excuse for feeling like a shy schoolgirl with a stupid crush. “I-I should probably get going.”

“Aww, leaving so soon?” Jerome twists his hand and ruffles Bruce’s soft hair. “Ya look parched. Wanna come back to our trailer for a drink?”

Jeremiah blinks and he shoots Jerome a questioning look. ‘**What are you doing?**’ is what his expression reads.

Jerome’s smile grows and he meets his brother’s gaze, giving him a mischievous wink. ‘**You’ll see**’.

Bruce misses the non-verbal discussion between the twins and he politely declines the invitation. “Thank you, but I’m not old enough to drink.”

“Hahaha!” Jerome cackles at the bold assumption, “What kinda guy do you take me for? Christ, I wouldn’t give a kid alcohol.” He motions to his brother, “Miah here made some lemonade this morning. It’s homemade, real good stuff. We can have cold drinks and bullshit.”

The boy narrows his eyes. He doesn’t trust the offer. As he shouldn’t.

Jerome smiles soft and sweet. He knows how to look harmless – at least in a relative sense. “C’mon, whaddya say Brucie?” He twirls one of the curls around his finger. “Pretty please? With a cherry on top?”

Bruce was going to refuse. He SHOULD refuse. However, he finds himself distracted by the wandering hand. Jerome touches his shoulder, tracing down his back. It makes Bruce shiver. The pressure is so light and it almost tickles. It verges on discomfort in a tantalizing way.

He relents.

“I can go for a cold lemonade.” Bruce says.

“That’s the spirit!” Jerome gently slaps a hand to Bruce’s shoulder and withdraws his arm. He twirls around and enthusiastically bounces out of the animal tent. “This way~” he calls.

Jeremiah stares at open flap in the tent where his brother disappeared. He’s expressionless and unmoving.

Concerned, Bruce interrupts the stillness. “Is everything okay?”

The question snaps Jeremiah out of his thoughts and he looks at Bruce, a smile forming. “Yes.”

If Bruce could describe Jeremiah’s expression, it would be like nails scraping across a chalkboard. The smile looks wrong. There’s no emotion behind it. There’s no compassion, or playfulness. It’s a well-dressed storefront hiding empty shelves. A forgery that’s fooled others before, but to Bruce, it’s unsettling.

“After you,” Jeremiah nods in Jerome’s direction.

“Okay…” Disregarding his gut instinct, Bruce exits the tent first, Jeremiah close in tow.

* * *

Bruce was about to grab the screen door handle when the door abruptly swung open and Jerome stepped out.

“There you are! Get in here slowpokes.” He holds the screen door open, gesturing for Bruce and Jeremiah to go in.

“I’m sorry. I may or may not have lost my way by the reptile tent.” Bruce enters the trailer first.

“He wanted to meet Lila and feed the python,” Jeremiah remarks, following the younger male inside.

“Ya met mommy dearest and Leviathan huh?” Jerome closes the screen door, followed by the regular door – he makes sure to lock it while Bruce’s back is turned.

“Wait-” Bruce’s jaw drops, and he spins around to face the redheads. “The snake charmer is your _mother_?”

“Pfft, snake charmer my ass! I’M the one who trained all the reptiles, but people don’t wanna watch a skinny teenager handling snakes. Nope. They prefer a dumb broad with big tits.” He leans away from the door and walks over to the kitchen counter. He reaches into an overhead cabinet and retrieves three empty glasses.

Why a son would comment on his mother’s cleavage was a mystery to Bruce, and he figures it’s best not to make inquiries about it. “I suppose there’s grandeur and mystery when it comes to an aged woman.”

Jerome lines the glasses up on the counter, scoffing at the analysis. “No grandeur. No mystery. She’s a _whore_ who fucks anything that moves.”

Bruce pales.

“Please excuse my brother’s vulgar language.” Jeremiah tentatively adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose. “As you can imagine, Jerome and mother don’t have …. The best of relationships.” 

“Relationship? Hah! Don’t make me laugh. The only thing that slut is capable of-” Jerome trails off after noticing the uncomfortable expression twisting Bruce’s features. “Sorry I uh, do you take ice with your lemonade?”

Bruce stiffly nods.

While Jerome fetches ice out of the freezer, Jeremiah touches Bruce’s shoulder and points to the booth table. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Sure.” The raven-haired male takes a seat, and Jeremiah does the same but on the opposite side.

Jeremiah sits proper, his back straight, hands over his knees, and he doesn’t make any sounds or movements – in fact, he doesn’t have any ticks that depict what he’s feeling.

Bruce feels obligated to sit straight and politely fold his hands over one another, against the tabletop. “On stage, I couldn’t tell who was who… Are you the first ringleader who performed with the tiger? Or the second one?”

There’s that peculiar smile again. All teeth. Prominent dimples. Bizarrely out of place, and somewhat antagonistic. “Take a guess,” Jeremiah softly murmurs.

Jerome smirks and noisily pops ice into all three glasses. “Yeah Brucie, guess!”

“Hmm…” Bruce purses his lips together in quiet contemplation. He twiddles his thumbs, staring hard at the older teen across from him. Up close, Bruce can see flecks of blue in Jeremiah’s absinthe eyes. It reminds him of the coral reefs at sea, the ones covered in bright green algae, immersed in their blue environment. He debates for a full two minutes and expresses his answer. “You’re the second ringleader because you’re poised, and you look like the fencing type.”

“Is that so?” Jeremiah grins in delight.

After placing the ice back inside the freezer, Jerome whips out a pitcher of lemonade and proceeds to fill each glass to the brim.

Jeremiah’s answer has Bruce second guessing himself. “No, wait…. You’re the first ringleader?”

“Maybe~”

Jerome appears next to the table and places a glass down in front of Bruce, another by Jeremiah. “Miah, quit fuckin’ with his head.” He sits down next to his twin sibling. “Ya had it right the first time kid.”

“I did?” Bruce brightens up.

Jeremiah snaps his eyes at his brother and picks up his drink. “Your observation skills are exceptional Bruce and you’re very intelligent, for a child of your age.” He sips on his lemonade.

“Thank you. Heh, I get that a lot.” The compliment has Bruce glowing proudly. He takes a drink of lemonade and pauses, eyes blinking in rapid succession. “This is… _Really_ good.”

“Told ya,” says Jerome. He elbows his sibling in the side, “He makes the best food and drinks, but he’s too modest to admit it.”

“Shut up.” Jeremiah elbows Jerome back, an indistinct blush coloring his cheekbones.

Jerome sticks his tongue out, “Make me.”

Jeremiah scowls, “Go to hell.”

Bruce giggles at the banter, finding it endearing and humorous at the same time. He continues to take big gulps of his drink; the cold liquid is refreshing in the summer heat. When the sugar becomes too much, a tart lemon graces his tongue. A perfect balance of sweet and sour.

As the twins bicker, Bruce finishes his glass and sets it down on the table. “Could I…. Trouble you for another glass?”

Jerome and Jeremiah end their argument and they study the empty glass, taking an unusually long time to answer.

“Anything ya want Brucie, it’s our pleasure to serve~” Jerome snatch Bruce’s empty glass up and heads over to the fridge again.

“Thank you?...” Bruce tells Jerome. He turns his blue orbs on Jeremiah. “How long have you been a part of Haly’s Circus?”

“Our whole lives,” Jeremiah responds.

“Our?” Bruce echoes. Was Jeremiah incapable of referring to himself as ‘I’ or ‘my’? It's a fascinating detail compared to Jerome, who distinctly uses first person narrative. Intrigued, Bruce carries on. “What city were you born in?”

“We don’t know.” Jeremiah shrugs, “Mother says Wichita, Kansas but our uncle says Springfield in Missouri. I’ve also heard Michigan was our birth place.”

“Wow… Really? It doesn’t list a city on your birth certificate?”

“Birth certificate?! Pfft, what are those?” Jerome resumes his seat and slides the glass of lemonade over to the boy.

“You’re joking… Right?” Bruce clutches the cool glass and raises it to his mouth.

Jerome laughs dryly. “Ooooh, Bruce. Tsk, tsk. I know funny, and joking about a piece of paper is hardly funny at all.”

“It’s more than just a piece of paper…. What about immunizations? Dental visits? Haven’t you been in an accident that required medical attention?”

The twins blink in unison.

“Uh, we’ve never been to a clinic or hospital…” Jerome starts.

“Well, we did go to a hospital once to check up on a friend who was nearly blinded during an unfortunate accident.” Jeremiah shrugs, “The circus life comes with its hazards and risks.”

“_Risks?_ Yeah right. If anyone’s a risk, it’s you Miah.” Jerome shakes his head, resulting in Jeremiah’s disapproving frown.

To say he’s dumbfounded would be the understatement of the century. Bruce CANNOT begin to wrap his mind around the information the twins shared. No clinics. No healthcare providers. No vaccinations. How are they even _alive_ right now? Bruce was beginning to suspect they weren’t born at a hospital and perhaps they weren’t born in a city. They could’ve been traveling on the road out in the middle of nowhere when their mother pushed them out of her womb. Either the twins developed a healthy, strong immunity or they’re extremely lucky to have never been exposed to contagions that could’ve resulted in death.

Jerome can see the metaphorical wheel spinning behind Bruce’s eyes. He smirks and stretches out his arm, only to boop Bruce on his nose. “I can see smoke comin’ out of yer ears. Try not to think about it too much.”

“Okay, I… It’s just _a lot_ to take in.” Bruce smiles wearily, “You’ve never gotten sick before?”

“Nope!” Jerome raises both arms and curls them, flexing and showing off his muscles. “I’m as healthy as a horse!”

Jeremiah pays no attention to his conceited brother and addresses Bruce’s concerns. “Minor colds, the occasional flu or fever. Nothing that would require a visit to the doctor. Besides, we have our own traditional medic from Italy. His homemade remedies are less dangers then western medicine and practices.”

“How so?” Bruce pretends he’s not watching Jerome fawning over his own fit body.

“The opioid crises for example. That’s exclusive to western medicine only.”

“True.” Bruce couldn’t argue with that one.

“And,” Jeremiah adds, “Going to the doctor for every inconvenience in one’s health produces hypochondriacs. You’ll find none of that here at the circus. As my brother declared, everyone is healthy, for the most part. We do have alcoholics and some of the performers depend on steroids or pain medication. How they come to procure said medication isn’t any of our business.”

“Hmm… The circus isn’t too different from Gotham,” Bruce comments.

Jerome lowers his arms, “So yer a city boy huh? Gotham, born and bred?”

“Correct.” Bruce nods and his gaze wanders over to his wristwatch; over half an hour had elapsed since his arrival. “I ought to get going now. I’ve kept the driver waiting long enough.”

“Rich kid has a chauffeur, oooh~” The older male jeers, “Ya some kinda billionaire?”

Bruce turns cherry-red and he refutes the notion by shaking his head. “No. Nothing of the sort.” The reason he didn’t reveal his last name was to avoid this – being ridiculed about his financial status. People habitually perceive him as a spoiled, rich brat who doesn’t know anything about real world problems. It’s difficult making friends as it is. Concealing his identity is more a necessity and less of a choice.

“My family is waiting,” he corrects. Adhering to the proper etiquette, Bruce finishes the rest of his lemonade and exhales a gratified sigh. “Thank you, again, for the drinks and company. The show too, I’d very much like to see it again.”

Jerome threw his elbows on the table and props his chin over his collapsed hands. He smiles like the cat that ate the canary, only, in his eyes Bruce _is_ the canary. “Ya wanna see the show again? Or see us?~”

“Both.” Bruce didn’t miss a beat. He can’t tell if he’s blushing or not, but his face feels hot – actually, his ENTIRE body feels like its overheating. He tugs at the cashmere sweater, trying to free up some room around his neck.

Jeremiah doesn’t respond, whereas Jerome is giggling like a delighted maniac. 

“HAHAHA! Aren’t you _precious_~” He emphasizes the word with a soft purr, smooth as silk and sweet like honey. “No autograph, I take it?”

“We… We can… save that… for next time,” Bruce says, making sure to form the words in clear-cut syllables. He’s perplexed. Why are his words flowing unsteadily? It’s like he’s consistently losing his train of thought and his mouth won’t cooperate; there’s a strange tingling sensation radiating on both tongue and the back of his throat.

A darkness settles in Jerome’s eyes and he licks his lips, waiting ever so patiently.

Jeremiah, on the other hand, has been isolated and cold since they met. He doesn’t attempt to smile, let alone provide reassurance for the confused boy, as he did earlier; those actions were gratuitous on his part. The façade is gone, or perchance, it was never there to begin with. He watches and waits, just like his brother.

Suddenly, the air around them feels heavy and intimidating, causing alarm bells to go off inside Bruce’s head. Dull, ringing noises that warn him to get out of the trailer. He glances down at his empty glass and notices how Jerome and Jeremiah didn’t even come close to finishing theirs – they were sipping, no, they were _pretending_. They didn’t touch their drinks at all.

Oh, God.

They spiked the lemonade.

Bruce catapults out of his seat and makes a dash to the door.

The redheads turn and observe.

At that moment, Bruce’s vision unexpectedly blurs and a wave of nausea comes crashing down on him. He ends up tripping over a small end table and plummeting onto the floor, over a pile of work boots that dig into his chest painfully.

Only, the pain is mild, but that doesn’t help the boy’s panicked state. His eyelids flutter and he struggles to push himself up.

“Yikes. Shoulda warned ya, that lemonade packs a punch.” Jerome muses aloud. He stands and saunters across the floor. He stops, crouches down by Bruce, and examines the kid’s terrified expression. “Yer the first to ever try and run. See I knew you were special when I first laid eyes on ya~” He moves his hand over Bruce’s face and strokes his cheekbone.

Bruce lets out a tiny gasp and he flinches away from the touch. “Don’t…touch...me!” He tries his very best to snap, but his voice lacks conviction.

Demented laughter rumbles out of Jerome. “I LIKE EM’ FIESTY!” He pinches Bruce’s cheek.

Jeremiah removes himself from the booth table and picks up all three glasses. He carries them to the sink and empties his and Jerome’s untouched lemonade. “This will be…. Interesting.”

“Ya can say that again.” Jerome watches Bruce’s attempts at crawling away. He leans down after a few seconds and shoves both arms underneath the kid’s stomach. He heaves the younger male off the floor and throws him over his shoulder, like he weighs virtually nothing.

Bruce claws and pulls at Jerome’s red flannel shirt. “S-stop…. Please, don’t…do…this.”

Jerome pats Bruce on the rear. “I can’t wait to fuckin’ break you, _little_ _rich_ _boy_.” There’s underlining spitefulness in his words.

The two disappear down the hallway and a bedroom door clicks open.

Jeremiah leaves the glasses in the sink, soaking in hot water and dish soap. He checks the front door to make sure it’s locked before padding down the hallway to join his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just smut. That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONSENT ISSUES!!!
> 
> CONSENT ISSUES!!!
> 
> CONSENT ISSUES!!!

Upon entering his bedroom, Jerome seizes Bruce by his expensive sweater and abruptly tosses him onto a full-size mattress.

Bruce grunts on impact and immediately tries to escape by crawling off the bed.

But Jerome is faster.

In the blink of an eye, Jerome tackles Bruce and pins him down against the mattress. He sits on Bruce’s stomach and uses his body weight to keep the unfortunate boy immobilized. It really doesn’t take much effort on Jerome’s part. Bruce is dainty and fragile– the _perfect_ prey.

“Get…off…me!” Bruce curls his hands into fists and pounds them into Jerome’s chest.

Jerome giggles at Bruce’s futile efforts. “Is that supposed to hurt?” He tauntingly strokes Bruce’s arms, only to wrap his hands around those thin, breakable wrists.

Bruce thrashes against the grip, until Jerome closes the distance and gets up in his face. The younger male goes rigid and visibly gulps.

“Look at you~,” Jerome continues. “You remind me of a black kitten I had when I was around yer age. Yeah, he was a feisty little shit too. Liked to scratch and bite, usually at the most inconvenient times.”

Jeremiah quietly enters the bedroom, pausing by the door to remove his shoes.

“I-I can give you money,” Bruce offers, voice pleading.

“What I want-” Jerome swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, looking hungrier and more feral than ever before, “-money can’t buy. Besides….” He cocks his head to the side, scanning the other male’s attire and considering the fastest way to rip his clothes off. “I don’t think anyone can afford you Brucie~”

Out of nowhere a water balloon slams into the outside wall of the trailer and explodes. The sound of gushing water ensues. A teenage girl screams at her friend, who’s laughing hysterically.

Bruce, Jerome, and Jeremiah all look over to the window at the same time. The curtains hinder their view but there’s a distinct outline of a person standing nearby.

The youngest opens his mouth and screeches, “I’M IN HERE! HELP ME!”

Jeremiah freezes and for a split second his life flashes before his eyes.

Panicking, Jerome slaps his left palm over Bruce’s mouth and smothers his cries for help.

“Did you guys hear that?” The girl outside the window asks. Her friend murmurs something inaudible, and the pair waits.

“Mmmf!” Bruce hooks fingernails into Jerome’s hand and strains to pull it away.

Jerome does NOT tolerate intimidation. Not from Lila. Not from Zach. Not from Owen and sure as hell not from some pampered, sheltered, brat from the North (rich) side of the city. He had to admit, Bruce had some big balls. He’s going to have to change that.

Using his free hand, Jerome retrieves a switchblade from his back pocket. He flicks his wrist and the blade snaps out of its case. He stakes the blade against Bruce’s neck, applying enough pressure to slice into the first layer of skin. It’s not a wound that can kill anyone, but it stings and draws blood. More importantly, it catches Bruce’s attention.

Bruce squeals under Jerome’s hand, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He falls motionless.

“That’s what I thought,” Jerome moves the blade higher, nicking Bruce’s jawline. “I could make this painful. I could tie you up, gag you, and do all sorts of things that’ll make you _screammm~” _He’s practically snarling, his words cutting sharper than his knife. “Is that what you want Brucie?”

Despite debilitating fear, Bruce manages to shake his head.

Jeremiah isn’t paying attention to his brother and Bruce. He analyzes the window, silently praying the girl and her friend didn’t figure out what was going on inside the trailer.

“C’mon, let’s get outta here,” a boy says.

“I’m still mad at you,” the girl snaps.

Their footsteps fade away, and Jeremiah breaths a sigh of relief.

Jerome relaxes the pressure around Bruce’s mouth. “If you try that shit again-” he trails the blade over Bruce’s pale lips, “-I’ll cut yer fuckin’ tongue out and watch you drown on yer own blood.” Just to get his point across, the redhead dips his head and nuzzles a kiss against Bruce’s ear. He whispers, “And after you die, I’m gonna have my _fun_. Yeah, you’ll be so nice and warm and quiet. I’m not above defiling a corpse, and neither is my brother.”

The imagery sends a violent shudder through Bruce’s body. He sheds tears then, wholeheartedly believing every word that spilled out of Jerome’s mouth.

“D’aww, don’t cry.” Jerome finds delight in Bruce’s reaction. He removes his hand and stuffs the blade back into his pants pocket. He cups Bruce’s face and strokes over the stained cheekbones. “Baby boy, can you listen and behave this time?”

A strange fluttering fills Bruce’s chest. He’d never been called ‘baby boy’ before and the way it rolled off Jerome’s tongue…. He finds himself agreeing a little too fast. “Y-yes.” The tears stop.

“Good boy~” Jerome purrs, making Bruce blush. He lets go, crawls backwards, and grips the younger male by his pants. Nimble fingers work the button loose and draw the zipper down.

“W-wait,” Bruce hastily sits up and attempts to stop him.

From the corner of the bed, Jeremiah observes. The only article of clothing he removed was his shoes, other then that he was fully dressed and studying the other two. There isn’t any emotion or interest reflected his green eyes. He might as well be a statue.

“Nah uh,” Jerome shoos Bruce’s hands away and yanks his pants, exposing a pair of white briefs – from the looks of it, brand spanking new. He slips his fingers underneath the hemline and tugs Bruce’s underwear past his thighs.

Jeremiah had initially assumed Bruce was in his early teens, judging by the way he carried himself. A mature, intellectual boy who was obviously educated. His assumption proved wrong. From where Jeremiah is standing, he can see Bruce’s absence of pubic hair. He was young. Not that it mattered to him, or his brother – Jerome chose Bruce to be their plaything for the evening and play they shall.

Embarrassed, Bruce grabs at the blankets beneath him and covers the exposed area.

Jerome thought Bruce’s modesty was comical, however, there was a slight problem; the kid wasn’t hard. The drugs should’ve taken effect by now and it was strange that he wasn’t sporting a full-on boner. Then again, Jerome did threaten to kill him and rape his lifeless corpse. Guess that could turn some people off.

“Ooooh, that won’t do.” Jerome shakes his head in disappointment. He scoots back and clutches Bruce’s left shoe. He removes it, followed by the right shoe, tossing them on the floor below. He climbs off the bed and stands, “Strip.”

Bruce’s bottom lip quivers and he stares at the older males, all doe-eyed and terrified.

Jerome huffs impatiently and whips out the switchblade again. “I’m not gonna say it twice.”

“O-okay.” Fighting the urge to cry, Bruce adjusts himself by throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He bends over and pushes everything around ankles. It takes a slight wiggle for him to drop his underwear and slacks onto the floor; he keeps his socks on.

Jerome is beaming again. He couldn’t have picked a better toy then Bruce. Usually, their toys scream and fight, and bawl their eyes out – it’s annoying to say the least. This kid values his life enough to listen and follow directions.

“Don’t forget yer sweater and shirt,” says Jerome.

Bruce obeys but his fingers are far too clumsy to make any progress with the buttons.

Losing patience, Jerome hisses, “Quit fucking around!” He makes a move towards Bruce, until Jeremiah holds up his hand.

“Allow me.”

Bruce looks up when Jeremiah rounds the bed and positions himself in front of the boy; it’s the first time he’s heard Jeremiah speak since entering the bedroom.

Jerome crosses his arms and stays put.

With efficient movements, Jeremiah undoes all the buttons and assists Bruce out of his Cashmere sweater. Folding the sweater over his arm, the redhead works the other buttons loose on Bruce’s white dress shirt and loosens the tie around his neck. “How are you feeling?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He’s utterly confused and petrified, not to mention dizzy; whatever was in the lemonade made his body feel weird. Jeremiah is being gentle and calm with him, whereas Jerome displays violence and a temperamental attitude. They made their intentions known, why should he answer questions? What’s the point of treating him nicely? NOTHING about this situation is okay.

Jeremiah doesn’t mind the silence. He removes the burgundy tie and slips the dress shirt off the boy’s narrow shoulders. He moves back, Bruce’s clothes hanging over his left arm.

The raven-haired male hunches into himself and tries to cover up with his arms and hands.

“What are we going to do about _that_?” Jeremiah asks, referring to Bruce’s arousal or lack of.

“Hmm…” Jerome considers the question and possible options. “I could give him a blow job?” 

Bruce’s stomach rolls unpleasantly. “N-no.”

“Like you have any say in it,” Jerome sneers.

Jeremiah studies Bruce’s pained expression, realizing the drugs are making him ill. Forced intimacy might not be the best option to get the boy excited. “How about… we give him a show, instead?”

“What?” Jerome quirks an eyebrow.

“A show,” Jeremiah reiterates. He folds Bruce’s clothes into a neat pile and sets them on top of a dresser. He turns, looks across at his twin, and addresses him in an icy monotone: “Get over here.”

Jerome’s arrogance dissolves and he sort of deflates on the spot. He appears bewildered and curious.

Bruce looks at Jerome, to Jeremiah, and back to Jerome. It was as if their dynamics switched and tension permeated the small bedroom.

Wary footsteps carry Jerome over to his sibling.

Jeremiah holds out his hand and motions for the knife.

“….” Jerome surrenders the blade and places it in Jeremiah’s hand.

There’s a metallic click and then there’s cold metal pressing right along Jerome’s jaw. Jeremiah stares into Jerome’s wide eyes, but chooses to address the younger. “We can do this the hard way or the gentle way. It’s your choice Bruce.”

Bruce blinks.

Wait...

Wait a second.

If he understands correctly, Jeremiah is allowing him to decide Jerome’s fate. Hard or gentle? Well, that’s an uncomplicated decision.

“Hard,” Bruce declares.

Jerome’s brow visibly crinkles and he scowls at the kid.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me.” Jeremiah cuts into his brother’s jaw.

“Shit.” Jerome shudders at the stinging pain, his eyes flashing. He turns his attention back to the other redhead.

Jeremiah keeps the knife right where it is. He leans in and mouths along the other side of Jerome’s jaw. He travels higher, allowing his to lips brush against Jerome’s own.

Jerome hates the way it sends a lurch of heath through him. He doesn’t resist when Jeremiah licks into his mouth. Fuck it. He kisses back before he can stop himself.

“Mmm~” Jeremiah groans and grinds into Jerome’s hips.

The events took an unexpected turn for the worse and poor Bruce… He isn’t prepared to cope. Not in the slightest. Jerome and Jeremiah are siblings for God’s sake! It’s disgusting, immoral, and perverse. Bruce turns away from the depravity and focuses on literally anything else. He feels like throwing up.

The knife is gone. Jeremiah steps back curtly and shoves Jerome down.

Jerome’s knees hit the bedroom floor, causing him to wince.

“Bruce” Jeremiah hums, a hand fisting into his brother’s hair while the knife caresses Jerome’s cheek. “Appearances can be deceiving. You’d never guess by looking at Jerome how much of a cock slut he really is. It’s easy getting him on his knees and he loves getting his throat fucked~”

Bruce felt his face heating up at the vulgar words and he didn’t like the way it made his heart clench. The Valeska twins are despicable monsters, right? They’re trying to make him sick by playing a stupid game.

There’s no way they’ve actually done _things_ to each other, right?

Amused at Bruce’s avoidance, Jeremiah regards the identical pair of green hues who stare so devotedly into his own. “Get my cock out,” he commands, fingers twisting painfully in Jerome’s hair.

Jerome’s scalp tingles from the hair pulling. He has no difficulty popping the button open on Jeremiah’s pants and tugging the zipper downward.

The other twin isn’t wearing boxers or anything. His erection is right there, hard and shiny at the tip. “Blow me, like you would if I were Bruce~” He rocks forward, pressing the head against Jerome’s lips.

_Nononononono. _This isn’t happening. Bruce isn’t going to look. He doesn’t want to.

But he also kind of does.

Craning his neck, Bruce steals a glance at the two. He thinks it’s a hoax and they’re going to laugh at him and his naïveté. 

Only that’s not the case.

Jerome has his tongue out and he’s dragging it across the head of Jeremiah’s cock, down the shaft, getting it split-slick. This causes Jeremiah to grunt and tighten his hold on Jerome’s hair.

All the color drains from Bruce. His initial reaction was to shout at them to stop. They can’t do this. They SHOULD’NT be doing this. His mouth opens but the words get stuck in his throat. Adrenaline rushes through his body, making him feel high. Disorientated. Drunk, perhaps – he tried wine once before, he knows the sensation.

Jeremiah meets Bruce’s mortified expression. His eyes are glassy and there’s a manic gleam in them. He grins feral and dangerous. Then he shoves forward. All the way.

Jerome’s throat convulses.

Jeremiah doesn’t give him time to adjust. He starts thrusting.

A tinge of guilt pricks Bruce. He can’t stop thinking about Jerome’s fate and how he might’ve played a part in it.

Nevertheless, he can’t look away, as shocking as it is.

Jerome clutches at Jerome’s hips. Maybe to keep his balance or maybe in an effort to slow him down. He’s struggling to breathe and saliva dribbles down his chin.

“I do so hate repeating myself.” Jeremiah abruptly thrusts himself directly into the back of Jerome’s throat, choking him. “Look at me.”

Tears leak from Jerome’s eyes as he battles to maintain eye contact through the punishing pace of Jeremiah’s cock fucking deeply into his throat. He’s gagging and spluttering, his lungs burning from oxygen deficiency.

“That’s it, choke on it _slut_.” 

The words make Jerome’s dick twitch. He wants to touch himself, but he knows he can’t, not unless Jeremiah tells him to. He swallows around the girth in his mouth, earning a pleased groan from Jeremiah and brief respite as his brother pulls out far enough to let Jerome steal a few quick breaths of air.

All it takes is a couple of seconds for Jerome to compose himself. Disregarding his sore throat, he proceeds to suckle and lick at the swollen head and shaft. He can taste bitter drops of pre-cum on his tongue, prompting him to moan and hum around his brother’s length, knowing it would drive him crazy.

Sure enough, Jeremiah closes his eyes and throws his head back. He starts thrusting wildly into the tender flesh of Jerome’s throat, pulling on his hair even more.

Jerome shuts his eyes and slides his tongue along the underside of the shaft, making sure to breathe every chance he got.

This would be the opportune moment for Bruce to dash out of the bedroom and flee the trailer.

If he wasn’t distracted that is.

Blue eyes soak up the nightmarish vision before him. Two blood-related brothers engaging in heinous sexual acts – one on his knees, forcibly giving oral with a knife to his face. They both radiate desire and lust, each control the scale of power and coercion. Bruce figures that nothing is involuntary here – it’s consensual, in a bizarre way.

On the other hand, none of it is consensual for Bruce. At least that’s what he keeps repeating inside his head. _It’s not my choice. They’re keeping me here._ _I’m only watching because I want to survive._

Anything sounds better than acknowledging the truth.

With a jerk, Jeremiah pulls back until only the tip of his cock remains in Jerome’s mouth. He came seconds later, forcing his hips to remain still as he filled his brother’s tortured mouth. “Hold it,” he growls between clenched teeth.

Jerome adheres to the demand and constricts his throat, experiencing hot blasts of bitter semen flooding into his mouth and sinuses. Some of the milky liquid dribbles down his jaw.

Panting lightly, a thin layer of sweat on his brow, Jeremiah pulls free and back peddles to lean against the dresser for support. “Open your mouth.”

Jerome opens his mouth, displaying the valuable prize within.

Bruce’s jaw slowly unhinges and his eyebrows shoot up. He’s in disbelief. Even during the most scandalous late night T.V. programs, he’d NEVER witnessed anything like this before. His interest is piqued, and he couldn’t look away if he tried.

Jeremiah smirks at Bruce. “He loves it, the taste of my cum in his mouth. Don’t you brother dear?”

Unable to speak, Jerome simply nods.

Jeremiah tucks the knife in his pants pocket, shifts over to the bed and takes a seat next to Bruce. He sits close enough to press into Bruce’s side and casually rests his chin on the kid’s shoulder. “What should we have him do with it?”

Bruce barely feels the bed shift under Jeremiah’s weight, let alone the warm breath ghosting over his ear. “U-uh…” His heart rate is erratic and deafening. He can’t take his eyes off Jerome’s swollen lips or the pool of white inside his mouth.

Jerome doesn’t move. Sure, he’s hard as stone and there’s a considerable stain on his pants, but he waits uncomplainingly.

Jeremiah smiles and brushes a kiss over Bruce’s delicate neck. “Can you imagine if that was you Jerome was blowing? It should be _your_ load in his mouth right now~”

Bruce whines, high-pitched and feeble.

“What’s wrong Bruce? Are you-” Jeremiah pushes closer, mouthing the underside of Bruce’s earlobe, “-sensitive?” 

A startling wave of chills sweeps through Bruce’s body. He grabs onto the edge of the mattress to ground himself. He can’t explain the ache twisting inside his chest, or why a meek kiss felt extremely intense. No. He WASN’T sensitive, or ticklish.

Jeremiah can see Bruce is fully erect and that his oversensitivity is a result of ecstasy coursing throughout his veins – it works better when there’s adrenaline, and Bruce succumbed to one hell of an adrenaline rush when watching the twins perform. He leans away and speaks, “Go ahead Jay. You can swallow.”

Bruce shivers, not because he’s cold, he’s just….. He _needs_ something and he doesn’t know what it is. He manages to lift his head and view Jerome as he swallows Jeremiah’s load. Jay? Was that some kind of nickname? Bruce’s thoughts are too hazy for him to inquire.

Jerome climbs to his feet and uses the edge of his flannel shirt to wipe the slick mess off his face. “You look like you enjoyed yourself Brucie~” his voice is hoarse from the throat fucking.

“H-huh?” Bruce doesn’t understand the statement.

Jerome flicks his tongue out, moving it across his puffy bottom lip. “Yer finally hard.”

“I-I, no, I don’t…. I’m not.” Of course he is. Bruce is hyper aware of his body. He’s got a hard-on that’s pushing into his belly and there’s something wet down there.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire~” Jerome husks out in a dreaded singsong voice. His scratchy tone adds to his horrifying nature.

In a flash of movement, the redhead tackles the raven-haired male onto the bed and pushes him flat.

Bruce squeaks and plants his hands against Jerome’s chest, attempting to push him away.

Jerome doesn’t budge. He’s sturdy. He’s all broad-shouldered muscle. He then sinks into Bruce’s neck, wrapping his mouth around the creamy flesh of his throat and sucking fast and hard.

It’s enough to rip a moan out of Bruce– the feeling is too much, it’s like he’s drowning under the attack.

The moan travels to Jerome’s cock. Oh, fuck, he wants to know what other delicious sounds Bruce can make. On impulse, he opens his mouth wider and uses his teeth to latch onto-

In a flash of movement, Jeremiah is standing over his brother and he snatches Jerome by the collar of his shirt. He wrenches back, tearing the unsuspecting redhead off Bruce.

“Hey?!” Caught off guard, Jerome ends up falling off Bruce and the bed. He stumbles but catches himself when he bumps into Jeremiah’s chest. He angrily turns around to face his twin. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?!”

Jeremiah discharges and lowers his hand, mouth pinched tight. He’s sullen and he almost appears hurt.

Jerome blinks and he tentatively brushes his hand against Jeremiah’s arm. “What’s the matter?”

“You can’t mark him,” mumbles Jeremiah.

Although Jeremiah can be a heartless bastard sometimes, he has a soft spot for his brother. They’re allowed to hurt one other in any way they see fit. They can cut into each other with bites, scratches, and knives. They can also bruise each other, be it by mouth or hand, they _own_ each other’s flesh and they demonstrate it by leaving various marks. The ownership claims are reserved for them, no one else.

Jerome understands straightaway and he cups Jeremiah’s face, apologizing with a tender kiss.

Jeremiah leans into it, lips parting to allow Jerome’s tongue to enter; he can taste himself on the pink muscle. 

The kiss is short and sweet. Jerome pulls away, wearing an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry Miah. Won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t because if it does,” Jeremiah kisses the tip of Jerome’s nose, “I’ll use your knife and gouge your eyes out.”

Jerome chuckles, “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Bruce lays there, breathless and flushed. The thought of escape is fleeting. His skin is itchy. His cock is throbbing and it hurts. He spins over onto his side and curls around a blanket and pillow, unconsciously rutting against the material; it brings a miniscule amount of relief. 

The twins end their intimate moment and concentrate on Bruce.

Jerome moves to the bed and hovers over the distraught boy. He strokes Bruce’s back, resulting in a desperate mewl. Jesus, he couldn’t get over how cute Bruce looked squirming around in his cotton-white socks like he’s in pain. “Can I at least fuck him?”

Jeremiah slips his glasses off, folds them, and gradually sets them down on the dresser next to Bruce’s clothes. “He’s our guest. Shouldn’t we take care of him first?”

“Hmm….” Jerome examines Bruce’s frail body and how he’s pushing into his hand, almost grinding his ass into the touch. He snickers and offers up a shrug, “Yeah I guess.” He reluctantly removes his hand and stations himself in front of Jeremiah.

Jeremiah doesn’t move. He stares at his twin, while Jerome unbuttons his blue dress shirt for him.

The shirt comes off, as does the pale-yellow tie. Jerome gets down on one knee and slides Jeremiah’s pants off. 

“Thank you.” Jeremiah steps out of his pants and removes his own socks. After tossing them aside, he touches Jerome’s shoulder and kisses his cheek.

“Mhmm~” Jerome smiles and nonchalantly strolls to the other side of the room. He starts stripping his clothes off.

Meanwhile, Jeremiah climbs atop the bed and grips Bruce’s arm, carefully pushing him onto his back. “How are you feeling Bruce?”

“I-I don’t know,” Bruce says anxiously. He allows Jeremiah to position him on his back, his fingernails scratching into the mattress.

“Hm.” Jeremiah crawls over the younger male and drops his head, kissing Bruce softly.

Bruce gasps and turns his head, breaking the kiss instantaneously.

Jeremiah giggles at that. “Oh, you’re inexperienced?”

“N-no.” Bruce lies.

“That’s fine~” Jeremiah cups Bruce’s chin and maneuvers his head, so they can face each other. “Copy what I do.” And with that, he kisses Bruce again, lax and gentle.

Bruce doesn’t move, not at first anyway. He shared a kiss with Selina once, but he suspects she did it out of pity. There was nothing intimate about it and it never happened again – he presumed he was a terrible kisser.

After a minute or so, Bruce begins to move his mouth in sync with Jeremiah. It’s easy enough to imitate and it feels very, _very_ nice.

Jeremiah forces his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, making the kid tense up. He explores and deliberately grinds on the younger male’s erection.

Hands grab onto Jeremiah’s hips and Bruce whines into the kiss.

“Mmm, you taste amazing~” Jeremiah purrs and genuinely means it. Bruce is pure and unsullied. He’s looking forward to deflowering an innocent virgin.

Bruce is already red, so it’s hard to tell if he’s blushing or not. He is though. He’s unusually self-conscious around the twins.

There’s a popping sound off to the side, like somebody opening a jar.

Currently naked, Jerome dips two fingers into Vaseline and walks up to Jeremiah. “Raise your hips.”

Jeremiah withdraws from Bruce and glances over his shoulder. “Yes daddy~” He rises up on his hands and knees.

Daddy? Bruce isn’t sure if he heard correctly. He trains his gaze on Jerome and his glistening fingers.

Jerome rests his left hand on the small of Jeremiah’s back and places a finger against Jeremiah’s hole. He locks eyes with Bruce and winks, followed by a cruel jerk of his hand.

Jeremiah hisses at the brutality, but a second finger soon plunges into him.

There’s a series of squelching noises as Jerome finger-fucks Jeremiah. “What were you saying about cock sluts?” He curls his fingers and intentionally jabs at his brother’s sweet spot.

“Fuck~” Jeremiah jolts in place. He drapes his arms around Bruce’s shoulders and rests his head against the boy’s warm chest, while keeping his ass in the air.

Bruce hesitantly wraps his arms around Jeremiah, unable to look away from what Jerome is doing.

Jerome leers in a way that makes Bruce flustered. He doesn’t let up on his unforgiving pace and he takes another stab at his brother’s prostate, gaining a throaty moan from Jeremiah. “See if anyone’s a cock slut here, it’s Miah. You didn’t buy the whole tough-guy act, did ya Brucie?”

The kid swallows thickly, uncertain if he should answer.

“He’s a good actor though,” Jerome carries on, his fingers thrusting steadily into Jeremiah’s wet heat. “But an absolute _bottom_. He’s crazy for dick, can’t get enough of it. Isn’t that right, brother?”

Jeremiah answers with another moan and he clings tighter to Bruce, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

Bruce shivers, hearing Jeremiah’s pleasure-filled voice does something to him. It makes his cock twitch. He feels inclined to touch himself but it’s difficult with Jeremiah laying on top of him. In the midst of discombobulated thoughts, he realizes that his repulsion is gone. He’s watching Jerome finger his own sibling, and Jeremiah is thoroughly enjoying it. It doesn’t make his stomach churn, nor does he want to cover his eyes.

**PLOP.**

Jerome retracts his fingers. “Yer in for a real treat~”

Bruce’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “A treat…?”

“Uh huh,” Jerome sucks his fingers clean, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

Jeremiah moves his hands to the bed and rises again. He eases forward, positions himself over Bruce, and brushes a hand over the boy’s erect shaft.

Bruce twitches under the touch and his breath hitches when Jeremiah lines him up against his entrance. His voice cracks during protest. “S-stop. Please don’t…. don’t do this.” He pictures Selina Kyle and her enthralling smile but all it does is create guilt and shame. He likes her, always has, and he thought they maybe had a chance at a redeemable future together.

Ignoring his pleas, Jeremiah eases down on Bruce’s cock. It goes in smooth and unopposed. He doesn’t stop, not until he’s fully sheathed.

“OhmyGod-” Bruce breathes out. He grabs Jeremiah’s hips, overcome by a new, invigorating sensation. It’s warm, silky richness. Tight, but not enough to hurt. He can’t even begin to describe how amazing it feels.

Jeremiah doesn’t give the boy much of an adjustment period. He starts rocking his hips, grinding himself on Bruce’s leaking cock.

“Crap,” Bruce says, fingernails scrape into Jeremiah’s flesh. He makes a noise that’s not quite a gasp and not quite a moan.

Jerome belly flops onto the bed and props himself next to Bruce. He watches the kid with fond admiration written all over his face, Christ he IS fucking pretty. Granted, Bruce doesn’t compare to Jeremiah’s beauty buuut he comes close.

Jeremiah picks the pace up. He transitions from moving in slow, hard circles to rising and sinking back down. He’s bouncing on Bruce’s cock, fluttering and squeezing around him so gratifyingly that it makes the kid writhe underneath him.

Bruce keens loud and frantic, an unknown instinct takes over. He plants his feet against the mattress and pushes up. He hits the other in such a way that it surprises Jeremiah– who is rarely ever surprised. That’s twice in one day. Bruce is proving to be more fun than originally anticipated.

“O-oh~” Jeremiah huffs a little when Bruce holds him in place, refusing to let him move on his own accord. 

Jerome can’t help but snicker, “By George I think he’s got it!”

Bruce doesn’t register the snarky remark. He’s too caught up in Jeremiah to care about Jerome’s teasing. He rolls Jeremiah’s hips under his hands, pulls him back and forth, and makes Jeremiah raise himself. Immediately he wrenches, driving Jeremiah back down onto his cock, drawing breathy whines from the redhead. Bruce has no idea what he’s doing. He’s copying scenes from a movie – the kind of movie Alfred would NOT approve of.

“Brucie has some tricks up his sleeve, don’t cha?~” Jerome loves the entertainment. He doesn’t even have to touch himself, he’s rock solid and aching to fuck Bruce. Maybe the kid has watched a porno or two, newbies don’t usually jump the gun this fast.

Jeremiah allows Bruce to take control, only because he’s so fucking _adorable_. Maybe he’s finally warmed up to the adolescent. Of course, his movements are somewhat sloppy and he’s nowhere near Jeremiah’s prostate – but that’s fine. He’s relishing Bruce’s pleasure and he lowers his head, trailing kisses across the boy’s jaw. “Are you going to come for me, darling?” he whispers honey sweet.

Bruce was already at his wits end. Pressure pooled in his groin, similar to what it feels like when he needs to pee and he’s holding it in. He’s old enough to know it’s not his bladder. He’s on the verge of a promising climax, up to the point where Jeremiah’s words trigger him.

All of a sudden Bruce arches his back, his eyes screw shut, fingers claw into Jeremiah’s hips and hold him in place. He makes wonderful, broken sounds when he comes. He thrusts desperately, feeling himself twitch inside Jeremiah. 

Jeremiah did NOT expect Bruce to finish as fast as he did. Perhaps he should’ve held off on speaking. His bemused expression sends Jerome into hysterics.

“HAHAHA!” Jerome reels, clutching at his stomach.

While Bruce’s rides out his climax, Jeremiah glowers at his sibling. He succeeds in grabbing a pillow nearby and smacking Jerome over the head with it. “Quiet you.”

The strike doesn’t affect Jerome. “Hah!” He slinks over on his belly and kisses Bruce on the forehead. “He doesn’t seem like the type that would get off on dirty talk. Who knew?”

Bruce stops moving. He lays there all soft and dreamy, panting quietly. He’s too drained to address Jerome’s comment but the kiss feels nice against his feverish skin.

“At one point, you were the same way,” Jeremiah says.

“Ouch.” Jerome rolls his eyes, “Anyway! It’s my turn. Get off.”

“Hmph. And if I refuse?” Jeremiah crinkles his nose, there’s a hint of possessiveness behind his words.

“Then I’ll fight you for him.” There’s nothing friendly about Jerome’s Cheshire cat smile. He’s baring his teeth. Appears threatening. He knows who’s stronger and who’ll win out of a fist fight.

Jeremiah is profoundly aware of their size difference – Jerome has more muscle mass. As for experience, Jerome’s been getting into fights since pre-school. He fights dirty, resorting to weapons and sneaky tactics – he wins every time though. One, particular memory comes to mind, something Paul Cicero said about Jerome Valeska. “_He came out kicking and screaming. I swear he was trying to square up with his mother after the first hour, kid is a natural born fighter.” _

Well, there’s some truth to that.

It doesn’t take long to come a decision and Jeremiah shrugs. “Fine. Whatever.” He kisses Bruce’s rosy cheekbone and takes extra precaution when climbing off him. He breathes shakily, warm liquid trickling down his thighs.

Bruce encounters a terrible ache after his cock slips out of Jeremiah. The cold hits instantly, causing him to shiver.

“No need to pout~” Jerome twitters. He sits up, grabs Jeremiah by his shoulders and brings him in for a kiss.

Jeremiah bites him.

Jerome flinches but it doesn’t stop him. He reaches up and grabs fistfuls of Jeremiah’s red hair, giving it a hard yank.

It hurts enough to make Jeremiah release.

Forcing Jeremiah’s head back, Jerome inclines and latches onto his throat, right over his Adam’s apple. He licks and sucks at the warm flesh, crooning appreciatively.

Jeremiah whimpers, the tension dissolving. He rests his hands on Jerome’s chest, eyes falling closed. His brother never fails to ground him. Whether it’s a mild touch or something demanding and rough. They’ve come to learn that neither likes to share; it’s a blessing and a curse. Jerome picked out a shiny new toy and Jeremiah wants to keep it all for himself. Absurdity at its finest. He concedes and apologizes.

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

Jerome pulls back and lets go of Jeremiah’s hair. “It’s okay baby boy, I know you didn’t mean it.” He pecks a kiss on his cheek and moves to the edge of the bed.

Jeremiah watches his brother take hold of Bruce’s limp frame and maneuver him into satisfactory submission.

Bruce is too out of it to put up much of a struggle. He’s aware he’s on his stomach now, the new position makes his head swim. In need of rest, he closes his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, you’ll miss out on all the fun~” Jerome purrs in a gravelly tone. He pulls Bruce down a little further, until his legs hang off the edge while his torso remains on the mattress. 

His feet touch the cold floor, sending a jolt through Bruce and stirring him awake. He tries to stand up.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Jerome shoves a hand against Bruce’s back, forcing him down again. He keeps the boy pinned and shifts off the bed. He stands behind Bruce and knees his legs apart.

If it wasn’t for Jeremiah’s fingers carding through his hair, Bruce might’ve been worried about what Jerome had in store for him. His back feels like it’s on fire under Jerome’s touch, what the hell did they lace his drink with? All he wants to do is take an ice bath and relieve his fever.

Jeremiah briefly pauses to press the back of his hand to Bruce’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

“Pretty sure there’s an ice pack in the freezer.” Jerome moves his hand away from Bruce to grab the jar of Vaseline.

“I’ll be right back.” Jeremiah retreats out of the bedroom and clambers down the hallway, some urgency in his steps; he doesn't bother to grab his glasses because he’s memorized the layout of their trailer.

“I think my brother has a crush on you Brucie. He doesn’t go out of his way for anyone.” Jerome scoops out a glob of Vaseline and slathers his cock. “Can’t blame him. You are the _prettiest_ thing in this godforsaken city.”

“Thanks…” Bruce doesn’t believe Jerome and Jeremiah are earnest in their compliments. They’re messing with his head. They took something from him, something he wasn’t going to ever get back. If he had the energy, he’d beg Jerome to spare him from whatever dastardly plan he’d concocted.

Bruce elects to ask, “Are you…. Are you going to kill me after you’re done?”

“AND you say the funniest things!” Jerome cackles, “No! I ain’t gonna kill ya. I just wanna have some fun before you go back to your perfect, cozy life~”

“Oh,” Bruce hangs onto the silver lining, grasps at it for dear life. The idea of going home with Alfred was the only thing that was going to help him get through this horrible ordeal.

“Soooo…” Jerome stalks closer, “Is it like a rich people thing? Ya got money riding on who can fuck a circus performer first? But yer loaded, hmm… Or is it because you’re tired of being a stuck-up prude? Cuz to be honest it took ZERO effort to get you back here. Probably woulda gave it up for any rando who looked yer way huh?”

“Fuck you-” Bruce grumbles, blooming dark red from anger and embarrassment.

“There’s that feisty spirit~” Jerome grabs Bruce’s ass cheeks and spreads them apart. He unexpectedly spits.

Bruce feels it hit him, warm and viscous, right on his hole. He shivers and swallows back a cry when Jerome rubs his thumb through it.

“It’s a good thing you came to us Brucie. If it’d been anyone else, they woulda raped you and left you to bleed out somewhere in a ditch.” Jerome presses inward.

The first bite of penetration burns. Bruce gasps and squirms away from the invading touch, gaining him a hard smack to the thigh.

“Stay still,” Jerome orders. He pushes his whole thumb in, bullying his way into the boy’s body.

Bruce face-plants into the mattress and wrestles the urge to scream. It’s painful, foreign and uncomfortable. His mind and body fights to relax when all he wants to do is hide.

Watching the other is intoxicating. Jerome doesn’t remember feeling quite so aroused and excited to play with a new toy. He twists and pumps, taking _time_ to open him up. He lets Bruce believe it, for like three seconds - he shoves a second digit inside him.

Bruce screams but the blankets stifle his voice. It doesn’t matter how much Vaseline Jerome coats his fingers in, it still, fucking, HURTS. His only saving grace is the drugs they slipped him. After the initial puncture, the agony progressively dulls. It’s as if he’s numb to a certain extent but in NO way is it tolerable. His body shakes, while Jerome steadily probes him.

Then Jerome’s fingers are gone. Replaced with the blunt head of his cock.

It feels big and a surge of overwhelming panic washes over the adolescent. “Don’t-” Bruce whispers. Not sure if he even means it. He’s dizzy. Pulsing with fear and conflicting emotions.

“What’s wrong? You don’t want it, baby boy?” Jerome rubs the tip over Bruce’s hole. Not pushing in yet.

“P-please, I can’t… I-it’s too big, it’ll hurt,” Bruce hiccups. He turns his head to the side, vision blurred by tears. Now that he comprehends Jerome’s plan, he’d rather they drugged him to the point of losing consciousness. He doesn’t want to be awake for what’s coming next.

“Only for a little bit, then it’s gonna start to feel _really_ good. I promise~” Jerome is about to push forward when Jeremiah opens the bedroom door and enters.

Homemade ice pack in hand, Jeremiah wanders to corner of the bed and stops to assess the situation. He notices Bruce’s wet face and feels something close to pity for the boy. He sets the ice pack on the mattress and crawls over to Bruce, the bed creaking under his weight.

The squeaking bed prompts Bruce to look up. As soon as he spots Jeremiah, he pushes off the bedroom floor and hurdles forward.

Jeremiah inhales slightly when Bruce collides into him and fastens around his shoulders, trembling like a frightened animal. He automatically throws his arms around the child and sits back down, cradling and swaying Bruce in an effort to calm him. “It’s okay, darling. You’re safe.”

Jerome scoffs and snaps his eyes, clearly exasperated. It always ends up at this point – Jerome is the awful, mean guy and Jeremiah comes off as the safe, sweet caretaker. He taps his foot impatiently, giving his shaft a few slow strokes.

Bruce clings to Jeremiah, sobbing into his neck and nearly hyperventilating. “I’ll do anything else! Anything but _that_! P-please don’t let him-” he trails off sniveling.

“Shhhh Bruce, it’ll be over before you know it~” Jeremiah presses a kiss against Bruce’s soft, black curls. He strokes up and down Bruce’s back, trialing his fingers over the bumps in his spine – he’s so skinny and frail. Jeremiah brushes his mouth over Bruce’s ear, “Lean up on your knees. I’ll be right here with you every step of the way.”

Whether or not Jeremiah was making an effort to provide comfort, the words sear into Bruce’s chest like a death sentence. He lets out a heart wrenching cry.

“There, there~” Jeremiah shifts his hands to the back of Bruce’s head and threads fingers into his hair. He helps Bruce by leaning back and pulling him high enough to rest on his knees.

Given no choice, Bruce's voice falters and fades. He’s forced on his knees, while hugging Jeremiah for support. He hides his face in Jeremiah’s neck.

Since Jeremiah and Bruce are in the middle of the bed, Jerome has to move onto the mattress and re-position himself behind the younger male. He presses close, his chest against Bruce’s back and his groin against his ass.

The kid whimpers and trembles uncontrollably.

Jeremiah has never seen anyone make such a fuss like Bruce. It’s nauseatingly cute. He glances at his brother, who’s already positioning himself between Bruce’s cheeks. He silently mouths the word ‘_Wait’_. 

Jerome frowns and postpones.

“I got an ice pack for you Bruce.” Jeremiah reaches over and plucks the ice pack from the corner.

Bruce doesn’t acknowledge Jeremiah. He keeps his eyes closed and nervously waits for the torture to take place.

The twins lock eyes.

Jerome nods.

Jeremiah doesn’t warn Bruce before striking the ice pack over his lower back, right above his tailbone.

In the same moment that Bruce cries out in alarm, Jerome pushes his way in. He gives short thrusts, inching his way past the tight ring of muscle, feeling it give under the onslaught.

What could have been the most painful experience in Bruce’s young life is quickly demolished under ice cold shocks.

Jeremiah glides the pack over Bruce’s spine at a deliberate, meticulous pace, distracting him from the other discomfort.

The redhead slows down, but he doesn’t stop advancing until he’s fully seated inside Bruce. Jerome licks his lips, staring down at the boy whose hole is stretched, red and obscene around his cock. “Fuck, he’s tight~”

Bruce’s breaths came in shallow, painful gasps. Tears stream down his face and Jeremiah kisses them away, still rubbing the ice pack over Bruce’s back.

A twisted smile dances across Jerome’s face and he reaches down, grabbing Bruce’s curls tightly in his fist. He pulls the kid’s head back, just as he began to pump into him.

Bruce can’t focus on the cold anymore. He gasps with each thrust, head tipped backwards, throat visible. The huffing little whimpers he lets out are like music to Jerome’s ears.

Jeremiah kisses up along Bruce’s throat, sucking and biting lightly, careful not to leave any distinguishable marks.

Jerome leans forward and purrs into Bruce’s ear. “Gonna make you come baby boy~” He aims a particularly vicious thrust into the tender bundle of nerves.

Everything flashes white and Bruce let’s out a high-pitched shout, his body spasms and tightens around Jerome as a result. He can’t discern if it’s pain he’s experiencing, or if it’s something that might actually feel great. Whatever it is is, it’s overwhelming him, suffocating him to the point where he’s teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

Dropping the ice pack, Jeremiah wraps icy fingers around Bruce’s flushed, erect cock. He starts jerking him off, twisting and squeezing as he does so. He sets a punishing pace, equivalent to that of his brother’s.

With Jerome slamming into his prostate again and again, and Jeremiah stroking him from the front, he’s got no choice but to give in. After only a few minutes, Bruce came with a hiccuping sob, shooting milky white semen across Jeremiah’s hand and stomach.

Jerome groans deeply as he felt the pulsating of Bruce’s body around him. That _voice_… Kid’s going to be the death of him. He forgoes hair-pulling and proceeds to hook his chin over Bruce’s shoulder, while wrapping his arms around his slim waist. He holds Bruce tight, noses into his hair, and allows his orgasm to roll over him.

Jeremiah continues caressing, even after Bruce spills over in his hand and stomach. However, when the younger male falls still and his grip slackens around his neck, Jeremiah halts.

Having an orgasm inside Bruce is maybe the best thing Jerome’s ever experienced, the exception being Jeremiah. His pace slows and he shivers through the aftershocks, hardly noticing the change in Bruce’s physical state.

“Bruce?” Jeremiah wipes his hand clean on the blankets. He cups Bruce’s face and gently tilts up.

His mouth partly open, breathing at a normal rate, Bruce is fast asleep, and Jeremiah thinks he looks angelic.

Jerome could do this forever, grinding himself slowly into the boy, losing himself in the way it feels. Visceral satisfaction that Bruce is his, correctly and completely, as he should be. He glances up when a finger prods his cheekbone.

“I think he passed out,” Jeremiah whispers, as though afraid he’ll disturb Bruce.

“Shit, really?” Jerome snaps his hips, violently attacking Bruce’s sweet spot again.

No reaction.

Possibly a slight twitch but the boy doesn’t make a sound.

“Out cold,” Jerome notes. He’s uncharacteristically gentle about pulling out of Bruce. Once he does, he pauses and admires the view. Cum leaks out of Bruce’s reddened, gaping hole which puckers from overstimulation. Jerome considers eating Bruce out. 

**BANG! BANG! BANG!**

The twins jump simultaneously, and they look towards the hallway.

A familiar voice hollers, “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! ANSWER THE FUCKING DOOR!”

Zachary Valeska.

Jerome rolls his eyes.

“Do you want me to get it?” Jeremiah offers.

“Naa. I got it.” He leans down and the two brothers exchange a kiss. Jerome hops off the bed and snatches his pants and black muscle shirt from the floor. On the way out he locks the bedroom door and shuts it.

**BANG! BANG! BANG!**

“YEAH YEAH I’M COMIN’!” Jerome shouts irritably. He gets dressed in the middle of the hallway before progressing to the front door. He unlocks it, pulls the door open, and pokes his head out. “Yeah whaddya want?”

“JEROME!” Zach grabs his nephew by his arm and roughly yanks him out of the trailer.

The redhead staggers and quickly whips around on his heels, ready to throw fists.

Furious and with absolutely zero fucks to give, Zach steps closer, staring down at his shorter nephew. “Some rich bastard lost his kid and he called the GCPD!”

Jerome lowers his fists slightly, “So?”

“SO?!” Zach smacks Jerome upside the head, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Flinching at the strike, Jerome blinks innocently. “Me?” He puts his hands on his hips and shrugs, “I’ve been home since the show ended. You can ask Jeremiah if ya want. Here, lemme go grab him-” He moves to the porch steps. 

A hand shoots out and Zach grips Jerome by his shoulder, stopping him. “I swear to fucking Christ Jerome….” His voice drops dangerously low, “If this is like the last time… If you did something to that kid-”

Jerome shoves Zach’s hand away, “Sheesh, have a little faith _Unc_! I didn’t do shit and I got no idea where the brat is.”

Zach regards Jerome carefully, sizing him up and weighing in on his words. He exhales a frustrated sigh and motions to the door, “Grab your boots and help me look for him. Place is crawling with the fuzz.”

“Alrighty~” Jerome happily goes inside, slips on a pair of work boots, and vacates the trailer to help aid in the search.

Jeremiah hears the entire exchange from the back of the bedroom. The cops? That’s not good. He listens to Zach and Jerome’s footsteps fade away, while cradling Bruce in his arms. He snuggles close, planting kiss after kiss against the sleeping boy’s face. He’s perfect. His blissful expression is something Jeremiah wants to remember forever.

Keeping an arm around Bruce, the older male reaches down and slips his hand between the mattress and box spring. He gropes around for a few minutes until his fingers brush over a familiar item. 

Jeremiah brandishes a cutting knife and places a kiss on Bruce’s forehead.

“Sweet dreams, darling~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JAM I'm dedicating this extra-smutty chapter to you because you've been so supportive and patient with me. I don't always deliver on time and for that I apologize. 
> 
> I wanted to get this posted as soon as possible, I'm sure there's errors and names in the wrong places. I'll fix it when I'm rested. 
> 
> What was supposed to end here will have another chapter because I'm evil like that XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MORE CONSENT ISSUES...?
> 
> Well, you read the previous chapter so this one isn't any different. Maybe a few more fluffy cute moments.

Jeremiah places the knife against the right side of Bruce’s neck, directly over his carotid artery.

Bruce doesn’t budge.

It’s going to be easy, too easy in fact. Bruce is so very thin and fragile; killing him would be the equivalent to stepping on an insect. Jeremiah can’t deny the sliver of guilt, but exhilaration trumps all doubts.

Pressure is applied.

The sharp edge cuts into Bruce’s neck and –

“MASTER B!”

The unknown voice is close. Jeremiah ignores it.

Suddenly, those long beautiful eyelashes flutter and Bruce utters a name. “Alfred?”

Shit… Bruce is awake. Jeremiah suspends the knife and seeks to distract the boy. “Alfred? Is he your father?” He reaches around Bruce and situates the blade along his lower back, near a vital organ.

“No,” Bruce murmurs, his hazy blue eyes distinguish the bedroom wall and covered window. “He’s my butler.”

Jeremiah pauses, grip slacking on the hilt. “I beg your pardon? Did you say butler?”

“Yes.” Bruce wiggles around in Jeremiah’s lap and raises his head.

With a quick wrist flick, Jeremiah hides the knife underneath the blankets. He reaches up and cards fingers through Bruce’s soft black curls. “I see…. What did you say your name was again?”

Bruce leans in slightly, vaguely aware of two throbbing sensations. There’s one in his neck, and the other in his rear. “Bruce.” He shies away and looks at the floor. 

Jeremiah cups Bruce’s chin and raises him, “Bruce _what_?”

Face-to-face, Bruce bites down on his bottom lip and stares into Jeremiah’s striking green hues. It’s the most enchanting color he’s ever seen. After brief deliberation, Bruce figures there is no point in hiding his identity anymore.

“Wayne… My name is Bruce Wayne.”

Recognition flickers in Jeremiah’s eyes and his hand stops moving through Bruce’s hair. That surname, he’s heard it somewhere before. He wracks at his brain to try to figure out why the name sounds familiar.

Then it hits him.

Four years ago Haly’s Circus paid Gotham its annual visit. To be honest, their timing was disastrous. The area was engrossed in citywide panic, a killer was on the loose and citizens feared for their lives. Every news channel, radio broadcast, tabloid, and newspaper repeated the same headliner: _“Couple gunned down in alleyway outside Broadway theatre.” _Shortly after hitting the media, the names of the deceased are confirmed and the public is devastated. Thomas and Martha Wayne, senselessly and violently murdered right in front of their son. Due to his age, Bruce’s name is left out of the news, but his tragedy would forever resonate in Gotham City.

Jerome had initially laughed at the heartbreaking news and it became the brunt of tasteless jokes._ “Poor, wittle, orphan billionaire. Must be hard living alone with all that money. Hey, how much ya wanna bet he pays somebody else to wipe his ass?” _Jerome wouldn’t shut up about it, whereas Jeremiah quietly read the newspaper article and didn’t think twice about its contents.

The shocking revelation worries Jeremiah. It’s one thing to kill someone who’s moderately wealthy, but Bruce went beyond upper class, WAY beyond. “_Thee_ Bruce Wayne?” he clarifies, “As in the son of the late Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne?”

“Yes…” Bruce cautiously nods.

Silence.

Jeremiah considers his next course of action. What are the pros and cons of killing Bruce? Do they outweigh the pros and cons of letting him live? Damn it… Each scenario carries adverse risks. Anxiety fades away and irritation replaces it. He can’t believe his brother’s stupidity! Of all the fans to choose from, he had to go and pick someone like Bruce motherfucking Wayne, a billionaire no less, whose disappearance would take the city by storm. There’s one too many things that could go wrong if he murders him, and one too many things that could happen if he lets him go.

It’s quite the conundrum, or _steaming pile of shit_ as Jerome would put it.

Bruce whimpers in pain.

The sound pulls Jeremiah from his thoughts and he discovers his fingernails digging into Bruce’s hips. “My apologies,” he removes his hands immediately.

“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. Bruce is descending from his drug-induced euphoria, which means all of his physical senses are returning. He can perceive EVERYTHING the Valeska twins inflicted on his body. His neck stings, but not nearly as much as his lower back and butt. It hurts to sit, so he resorts to leaning up on his knees. Warm liquid seeps out of him and trails down his thighs. He’s presently naked, just like Jeremiah – he doesn’t have a clue where Jerome disappeared to. It’s odd but he doesn’t remember the other redhead exiting the bedroom. He does remember Jerome whispering something in his ear while-

No. Bruce isn’t going to think about it. The younger male allows his gaze to travel to the closed bedroom door. “May I please leave?” He recalls how Jerome attacked him with a knife, hence his manners and calm temperament. 

Jeremiah studies Bruce’s side profile. A tiny amount of baby fat still clings to Bruce’s face, and his nose has the cutest arc at the end. His hair, once prim and proper, is a tangled mess of sweaty black curls. His baby blue eyes are reminiscent of the sky, cosmic and pure. He has full, pink, pouty lips that could arguably give any pinup girl a run for her money. His complexion includes soft, creamy skin that’s sweet on the tongue. In addition, there’s a remarkable fragrance present, Jeremiah would say floral, like honeysuckle and a hint of vanilla. Oh how the list could go on forever. 

“Yes, you may.”

Bruce’s attention snaps to Jeremiah. “R-really?”

“Mhmm.” Jeremiah reaches out and tucks one of Bruce’s curls behind his ear. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

* * *

Bruce stands underneath a showerhead, hot water cascading down upon him. Thankfully, the painkillers are starting to kick in. Earlier Jeremiah insisted he take ibuprofen and after a lengthy lecture, Bruce agreed and took the pills. He can move without excruciating pain and his fever is going away.

Jeremiah tugs the shower curtain aside to reveal a small plastic bottle in one hand; he doesn’t have his glasses and is without clothing. “Turn around and bend over. You can use the wall for support if you have to.”

“I’m capable of cleaning myself…” Bruce says, wearily eyeing the items in Jeremiah’s possession.

“Yes, I’m aware.” Jeremiah’s expression is critical, “It was your first time and I suspect there was some tearing. I don’t want you to further injure yourself.”

“….” Bruce swallows dryly, stomach twisting into excruciating knots. He turns around and lays his hands on the tiled wall. He bends at a slight angle. “What’s in the bottle?”

“Numbing gel.” Jeremiah steps inside the tub and closes the curtain behind him. “It’ll make the cleaning process tolerable.” He pops the cap open and pours transparent gel across his fingers.

“Numbing gel?” Incredulous, Bruce tries to imagine what companies distribute the product. He couldn’t think of any at the moment. Perhaps it was stolen merchandise. 

Capping the bottle and tossing it aside, Jeremiah positions himself behind the younger male.

Bruce tenses.

“Try to relax Bruce, deep breaths.” Jeremiah inserts his right index finger between Bruce’s plump cheeks, prodding into the boy's entrance.

The advice doesn’t help. Bruce cries out in shock and he automatically clamps down on the unwelcome intruder.

Jeremiah moves at consistent pace, wiggling his finger and pushing through resistant muscles. He can feel his brother’s cum leaking around his finger and a surge of jealousy strikes. Jerome was fawning over Bruce and looking at him with those stupid heart eyes. Hell, he didn’t punch or stab the kid. Usually Jerome likes to demonstrate power by resorting to violence, other times he’s simply bored. He must’ve taken a liking to Bruce because he tried to bite him, tried to claim him. If Jeremiah hadn’t intervened…

Seething in resentment, Jeremiah pushes a second finger inside Bruce and fingers him in earnest.

Bruce keens, back arching as he attempts to pull away from the sudden onslaught.

Jeremiah clenches down on the boy’s hip, emitting a low warning growl. His fingers reach deeper, kneading at his prostate. He’s enjoying the sensation of Bruce’s open, oversensitive body, and how it shudders beneath him.

Bruce struggles to remain stationary. Every nerve ending and muscle is screaming out in – pain? Pleasure? It’s a mixture of everything and it proves overwhelming. He cries and scratches into the tiled wall, his body betraying him when his hips begin to move, almost on their own. Not away, but towards the feeling of too-much-pleasure Jeremiah is providing.

“Look at you,” Jeremiah praises. “You love it. You love this. You can deny it all you want but it’s true. Bruce Wayne is a greedy little _whore_~”

The humiliating words make Bruce’s face burn red. He’s unable to stop the heated moan and he starts ramming his hips desperately against Jeremiah’s fingers.

Nearly there, Jeremiah thought with a smirk. He savors the pitiful sounds pouring out of Bruce. He really _is_ a gift. Jerome selected wisely; he couldn’t imagine fucking that garish fan with the vulgar attire and strawberry blonde hair. 

Jeremiah unexpectedly angles his wrist and with a clever flick of his fingers, he hits the boy’s prostate just right.

Bruce slams his head, head butting the shower wall as he came. Thick streams of white splatter across the tiles and he constricts around Jeremiah’s still moving fingers. His breathing is rushed, unsteady, and a headache is looming near.

Overpowered by the inexplicable urge to claim Bruce, Jeremiah quickly removes his fingers. He presses into Bruce’s back and lines himself up next to the tight ring of muscle. He doesn’t give any warning before pushing into the boy’s slick heat.

The numbing gel helps alleviate some of the pain but that’s not to say Bruce doesn’t experience his muscles being forcefully stretched apart – he can’t discern if Jeremiah is bigger than Jerome, it hurts all the same.

Jeremiah claws into Bruce’s hips and he shoves forward, and backwards, repeatedly slamming the boy onto his cock. During each thrust, he aims for the abused prostate, eliciting a torrent of whimpers and moans. Bruce is the most wonderful gift to have ever graced this earth. The way he’s accepting and squeezing around Jeremiah’s dick is surreal. It’s as though he’s trying urge him to ejaculate and fill him with hot seed. He’s _begging_ for it.

With a final hard slam of flesh, Jeremiah’s orgasm crashes down on him. He lets out a throaty moan while emptying himself into Bruce’s shaking body.

The last time this happened, Bruce passed out. Right now, he’s fully awake and conscious of liquid heat filling his insides. Jeremiah bucks his hips again, stabbing at his prostate and making Bruce yelp. Extreme stimulation forces his tiny bladder to explode and he ends up urinating soon after.

Jeremiah looks down to see yellow fluid on the tub floor, flowing steadily into the drain. He’s not repulsed. After all, Bruce consumed a heavy amount of lemonade – it’s any wonder his bladder lasted as long as it did. He leans closer and rests his chin on Bruce’s shoulder. He turns and nuzzles a kiss to his ear. “You don’t deserve Jerome.” His arms slide around Bruce’s waist, holding him close. “I want to hear you say it.”

If it wasn’t for Jeremiah’s grip, Bruce would’ve collapsed. He shivers not from the kiss, but rather the aftershocks of having just ejaculated for the 3rd time that evening. He whispers quietly, “I don’t deserve Jerome…”

“No, you don’t.” Jeremiah rubs his smooth stomach, lightly tracing a finger over Bruce’s semi-hard length; it twitches under his touch. “He doesn’t deserve you either. You need a patient and understanding lover, not a freak who lacks impulse control.”

“L-lover?” Bruce gasps, feeling Jeremiah’s fingers curling around his shaft, followed by slow, lazy strokes.

“Yes, or do you prefer to the term ‘boyfriend’? Is that something you want Bruce?” He tightens his hold on Bruce’s dick, coercing an agonized sob out of the boy’s mouth. “I can be your boyfriend~”

“What I want,” Bruce wheezes, “-is to go home.”

Disappointed, Jeremiah tuts and pulls out with a squelching pop; a combination of cum and blood drips out of Bruce’s open hole. He grabs the adolescent by his shoulders and spins him around. “Tell me the truth. Who’s your favorite out of me and Jerome?”

Bruce flinches after Jeremiah withdraws, but the abrupt twirl results in a light-headed buzz. He clings to Jeremiah’s arms for support, trying his best not to focus on the uncomfortable throbbing. He gazes into emerald eyes, taking note of how serious Jeremiah appears. If lying will get him out of here faster, then so be it.

“You’re my favorite Jeremiah.”

"I knew it." Jeremiah beams and throws his arms around Bruce, giving him an enthusiastic hug. He noses his way through wet curls. “Do you feel it, Bruce? The connection between us?”

“…..” Bruce doesn’t return the embrace, nor does he acknowledge the undeniable bond he shares with Jeremiah and Jerome Valeska.

The silence provokes a hysterical giggle from the redhead; he sounds eerily like Jerome. “You do, don’t you! Bruce, tell me you feel it~” he croons.

Although it makes him sick to his stomach, Bruce addresses the disturbing comment.

“Yes, I feel it.”

* * *

It takes 10 minutes for Bruce to get dressed but his hair takes FOREVER and is the source of Jeremiah’s frustration.

“Damn it…. Wait, let me just-” The older male, dawning sweatpants and one of Jerome’s t-shirts, aims an aerosol can at Bruce’s hair and unleashes another coat of hairspray.

They’re currently in the bedroom and Bruce is perched on the edge of the mattress. He closes his eyes under the chemical mist– he _never_ used hairspray in his life.

Jeremiah lowers the can and his eyebrows furrow disapprovingly. Bruce looks the same as when he first met the twins, the exception being a Band-Aid on his neck. The only trouble is his hair! The curls won’t stay in place and Jeremiah ran out of hair products two weeks ago. He’d been meaning to go shopping but resorted to procrastination instead. All he had on hand was an aerosol can of hairspray that he swiped from Lila’s trailer.

“This is problematic…” Jeremiah discards the hairspray can. 

Bruce opens his eyes and looks up. “I could lie? I’ll tell Alfred that a few kids roughed me up.”

“Lie?” Jeremiah quirks an eyebrow, “Now why on earth would you do that?”

“Huh?” Bruce blinks at the confusing inquiry. “Aren’t you worried I’ll tell someone the truth?”

“And what truth would that be, Bruce?” Jeremiah stands in front of the boy and peers down at him, his face devoid of any emotion or concern.

Bruce hesitates. Is it a trick question? He doesn’t know what Jeremiah wants to hear and the uncertainty raises his heartrate. “You and Jerome…. You drugged me and raped me inside your trailer.”

Jeremiah rolls his eyes distastefully. “Rape is such an ugly word.”

“What would you call it?” Bruce doesn’t hide his disdain. 

“Sex, if you’re looking for the literal term.” Jeremiah rests his hands on Bruce’s lap and sinks to the bedroom floor. Once on his knees, he inches nearer while prying Bruce’s legs open. After settling nicely in the gap, Jeremiah meets Bruce’s anxious gaze; he’s smaller this way, appears less intimidating. “I’d call it making love, or engaging in an intimate exchange, creating long-lasting bonds and friendships?”

Bruce keeps his hands to himself, unsure what to think of the advance. He scoffs at the reply and shakes his head, “I didn’t give my consent.”

“Consent isn’t black and white. There’s a grey area you’re neglecting to consider.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jeremiah shrugs, “You said no to Jerome, understandably, he’s callous and reckless. But our shower together? You rode my fingers like you needed it~”

Despite his red face, Bruce narrows his eyes and glares. “That doesn’t imply anything!”

“Oh? I could’ve sworn you were having a good time.” Jeremiah’s amused smile irks Bruce further. He goes on to ask, “What about earlier?”

“….Earlier?”

Jeremiah inclines, kisses the shell of Bruce’s ear and in his sticky sugarcoated voice, whispers “You filled me with your load and I can’t stop thinking about it~”

Bruce blushes so hard that it travels to his ears, turning the cartilage bright crimson. He leans back and instantly buries his face in his hands, visibly embarrassed. 

As children, Jeremiah and Jerome frequently heard the catchphrase, _“You’re so cute I could eat you up!”_ He never understood it and he hated the demoralizing cheek pinches and musty kisses that ensued. Now, fast-forward to where Bruce is red, mortified, and hiding behind his own hands – utterly adorable. The kid is the literal definition of the phrase.

“Darling~” Jeremiah clutches Bruce by his wrists and slowly pries them away. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to live and enjoy yourself.”

Glossy-eyed and on the verge of crying, Bruce’s bottom lip quivers and he makes it a point to avoid looking directly at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah understands Bruce’s reaction, having undergone a similar situation. Years ago, he lost his virginity to Jerome and endured a flood of mixed emotions. There was shame, happiness, self-loathing, relief, confusion, and an assortment of revulsion and unease. Eventually, sex became a natural stress reliever for both; he’ll never admit how much he craves Jerome’s touch and reassurance. Whether he likes it or not, he’s bound to his sibling in the worst possible way. But in Bruce’s case… It’s the type of bond Jeremiah can willingly choose; he’s never had this kind of freedom before. It’s exhilarating.

Letting go of Bruce’s wrists, Jeremiah slips his arms around the boy and cuddles him. He’s pushes a kiss into Bruce’s chest and lingers there, so the other doesn’t have to worry about concealing his face. “Regarding your previous question, I’m not worried about what you’ll say, or who you say it to. There’s plenty of law enforcement officials outside, I won’t hold it against you if you go to them first.”

“…” Bruce calms slightly but now he’s even more puzzled. One second he’s apprehensive and fearing his life might end, the next, he receives snuggles and loving kisses. Jeremiah is an odd creature and his mood swings are all over the place, difficult to anticipate. At least Jerome had a consistent temperament – and a single personality to work with.

Curiosity gets the better of him.

“You’re not concerned about the prospect of going to jail? You and Jerome could face serious time in prison.”

Jeremiah closes his eyes, relishing Bruce’s personal scent. He offers a shrug, “Jail, prison, it’ll be an upgrade.”

“Upgrade?” Bruce can’t tell if this is another lie. He’s confident enough to tap Jeremiah on his shoulder, “Explain.”

Beckoned by his beloved, Jeremiah’s eyelids flutter open and he tilts his head, looking up at the raven-haired male. “Have you not been paying attention? Look around Bruce, I’m living in purgatory.”

“What? I don’t understand… You perform at a circus. Your fans love you.”

The sad smile on Jeremiah’s face says otherwise. “They merely love what they see on stage. Once the show is over and the veil is lifted…” He sighs unhappily, “People take one look at me and assume I’m poor, stupid, inbred trash. What’s worse is the reputation the circus carries… We’re thieves. We’re alcoholics. We’re degenerates and outcasts. We choose this way of life so it must be our fault for all the crime happening in the city.”

Jeremiah sniffles, blinks away hot tears, and continues. “You probably think Jerome and I are freak of natures…. The things we do together…. It isn’t normal. My brother, he um… didn’t exactly give me a choice.” He notices the startled expression on Bruce and hastily shakes his head, “It’s not what you think! He didn’t force himself on me. I consented in exchange for protection.”

“Protection…?”

“Yes.” Jeremiah turns his head and places his cheekbone on Bruce’s shoulder, facing towards his neck. “If it hadn’t been Jerome… It could’ve been my uncle, or the circus ringleader. Maybe one of the foreign laborers and they would NOT have been as gentle as Jerome was. He keeps the bad men away, but in doing so he’s grown possessive. I don’t have friends because of him, and I feel alienated and alone all the time. For once in my life I want a _normal_ friendship, someone who won’t judge me based on my lifestyle and lack of financial security. Someone who doesn’t require anything in return and doesn’t make me feel unhappy at the end of the day.” He holds Bruce a bit tighter, the silence unfolding between them.

The admission sinks in and Bruce mulls it over inside his mind. In no way did he contemplate circus life or what happens after the show ends. He’s had his fair share of cruelty and godawful rumors, the worst being he paid someone to murder his parents, so he could inherit the family fortune more quickly. People look at him and all they see is money and greed. Bruce is anything but. Terrible gossip and misguided perceptions isolated Bruce, forcing him to drop out of private school and end friendships. It wasn’t challenging because he never had any real friends to begin with. There’s Selina Kyle but her loyalty is debatable. The second prominent person in his life is Alfred Pennyworth, who’s more a father figure then a friend.

Sometimes the loneliness becomes unbearable and he'll succumb to periods of depression. He can’t talk to Alfred about it, fearing he might cause the elder distress. Selina hates to talk about feelings, and she’ll suggest they do something dangerous, like joyriding in the company limousine at 3:00 o’clock in the morning. The adrenaline rush is a temporary escape and in the end he’s alone.

As impossible as it may seem, Bruce empathizes. Compared to the few people in his life, he’s got a lot more in common with Jeremiah Valeska.

Bruce finds himself draping his arms around Jeremiah’s shoulders and stroking fingers through his auburn locks.

Jeremiah smiles behind his crooked glasses and foggy lens. “I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

“You don’t mean that…. You have family, you have Jerome.”

“You have Alfred and yet you’re unfulfilled.” 

“I’m not-” Bruce bites his tongue. It’s rare he meets people who can see past his cheerful exterior. Even now he’s trying to learn how to live a life without his mother and father. That kind of pain is far worse than anything Jerome and Jeremiah could ever impose.

A raspy, grumpy voice hollers the name “BULLOCK!” right outside the bedroom window.

Jeremiah lifts his head and looks towards the commotion. “I think that’s your cue to leave.”

Acting on impulse, Bruce clumsily grabs Jeremiah’s face, turns him, and presses a sloppy kiss that partly misses his mouth.

Jeremiah giggles quietly and pulls back, this time cupping Bruce’s face. “Care to try again?”

Bruce blinks, wide-eyed and rosy. He nods and closes the gap between their mouths, not rushing into it this time.

They kiss, tender and heartfelt, like a farewell.

“Can I see you again?” Bruce whispers against the kiss.

Jeremiah hums in acknowledgement, “Of course.” He reluctantly breaks the kiss and reaches up to try and tuck a couple stubborn curls back in place. “We’re here for one more week, but you’re more then welcome to pay us a visit before and after the show.”

“One week?” Bruce is surprised. “Why? Where are you going?”

“Bruce,” Jeremiah smiles and pecks the boy’s nose with a kiss, “Haly’s Circus is a traveling circus. We go from one city to the next; one state to the other.”

Upset, the younger pinches his mouth and hangs his head. “Oh, that’s right…”

The brief image of choking Bruce and rendering him unconscious flashes in Jeremiah’s mind; there’s so many places he could hide him. He’d treasure the adolescent like a precious keepsake and maybe keep him alive, depending on how well he could behave.

More people gather outside, and an authoritative voice mentions search teams and trained canines.

Their time is up.

Jeremiah stands and extends his hand. “I’ll walk you out.”

Bruce takes the offered hand and rises to his feet. “If it wasn’t for drugs and sexual misconduct, I might actually like you.”

“If we asked politely, would you have let Jerome and I have our way with you?”

The boy’s timid smile causes Jeremiah’s heart to flutter and now he’s the one blushing. He clears his throat, “Ahem. This way.” He interlocks their fingers and guides Bruce out of the bedroom and down the hallway. He approaches the front door and unlocks it.

Footsteps shuffle across the ground outside, prompting Jeremiah to pause and listen. Once the footsteps fade away, he opens the door and pushes the screen door wide open.

Bruce suddenly leans up on his tiptoes and kisses Jeremiah on the cheek. He lets go of his hand and gracefully exits the trailer.

Jeremiah grins, never taking his eyes off the other. “Crafty little thing.” After Bruce disappears behind a row of trailers, the redhead closes the screen door first, followed by the regular door. “Naïve too.”

* * *

GCPD officials scurry from one trailer to the next, questioning the inhabitants about Bruce Wayne’s whereabouts. A recent photograph is provided, however, none of the circus folk recognize the minor. It’s a dead end at every corner and Jim Gordon is starting to believe they have a kidnapping case on their hands – possibly someone outside the circus.

Jim and Harvey seek out the kid’s caretaker.

Alfred bustles about the parking lot, questioning departing fans. He abruptly cuts in front of a hefty woman and her daughter, making sure to hold up multiple photos in each hand. “Excuse me miss, have you seen this boy? Spirited lad, about 5’1”, black hair, and blue eyes. He’s wearing a gray cashmere sweater and black slacks-”

“Sorry, can’t help-” The woman ushers her daughter around the well-suited man to try and get to the blue van behind him.

Infuriated at the curt remark, Alfred sidesteps and deliberately blocks her from entering her vehicle. “You hardly glanced at the picture. Now please, take another look. From one parent to another, help me find my boy.”

The woman flares her nostrils and huffs annoyingly. “Fine.” She pulls her daughter closer and the two analyze the photos closely. “Hmm…. Can’t say I recognize him,” the mother says. “What about you Lucy? Have you seen this young man?”

“Mmm…..” Lucy rocks back and forth in her pink floral sandals. “I saw a boy go into the animal tent. I only saw him from behind, but he was dressed very… Very, um…..”

“Formal?” Alfred says hopefully.

“Uh, I don’t know what that word means…” The little girl shrugs.

Alfred gives a frustrated snort; the girl looks the same age as Bruce but her intellectual capacity is nowhere near his. He re-words his question. “Did he look different? Strange and out of place? Ya know, doesn’t dress like a normal kid his age?”

“Yes!” Her eyes light up, “Like an old man. Kind of like you, same black pants and shoes.”

“Thank you,” Alfred ignores the rude observation and dashes out of the parking lot. Animal tent…. There are dozens of tents! Which tent specifically? He should’ve asked for color and size.

Jim and Harvey round a hot dog stand and soon spot Alfred running across the circus grounds.

“Mr. Pennyworth!” Jim shouts, waving an arm at the butler.

Alfred skids and changes direction, rushing over to the two cops. “Have you found him?!”

“Unfortunately, no.” Jim glances over at the parking lot. “Any luck with the visitors?”

“Yes and no. A little girl believes she saw Bruce go into the animal tent.” Alfred shakes his head, tucking the photographs into the inner folds of his suit jacket. “I suppose I’ll have to bribe one of the workers to show me where they keep their animals.”

“No need.” Harvey whips out his badge and holds it up on display. “Flash em’ this and they’ll do whatever you want, no questions asked.”

Jim rolls his eyes, “Put it away Harvey. We’re making them uncomfortable as it is.”

“Just sayin’,” Harvey tucks the badge away.

Meanwhile, Bruce catches a whiff of popcorn and he stops midstride. The smell results in a rumbling stomach. He’s FAMISHED. The last time he ate was at the manor; Alfred prepared them avocado bacon chicken wraps. The memory makes him salivate. He wanders in the direction of the food stands, that is, until he hears a distinct conversation taking place.

“Fuck. We’re gonna take the heat for this and it’s all your fault!” Zach barks.

“I already told ya I didn’t do anything!” Jerome scoffs.

“Yer a fucking liar!” Zach backhands Jerome across the face.

**SMACK!**

The redhead staggers and covers his swollen cheek with his hands. His grinds his teeth and scowls at his uncle. “Ya wanna try that again? Plenty of cops here Unc, I’m sure they won’t take too kindly to a grown ass man slapping a teenager around.”

“Why you little piece of shit-” Zachary balls his fists, prepared to beat respect into his nephew.

Jerome laughs unhinged and wild, without trepidation. “HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! What’s the matter? Cat got yer tongue!? Come on, hit me~”

Bruce is petrified. He recognizes Jerome but not the older man who slapped him. Call him insensible, but there’s a present desire to step in, to intervene in Jerome’s mistreatment. Whoever the man is, he shouldn’t be abusing anyone like that.

His mind made up, Bruce changes direction and walks over to Jerome and the unidentified assailant.

Jerome looks past his uncle, catching movement in the background. Those absinthe eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and his jaw drops. He’s stunned to see Bruce, alive and strolling over like everything’s dandy.

Zach doesn’t understand Jerome’s disbelief and mistakes it for a mocking joke. “PAY ATTENTION BOY!” He uses an open palm to slap Jerome in the face – this attack less likely to leave a bruise.

**SMACK!**

“OUCH! FUCKER!” Jerome tears up and he throws a kick at his uncle’s shin.

Zach howls at the sharp pain and falls on his ass.

The two Valeskas engage in a shouting match, each cursing and shouting foul insults.

Bruce is almost there, and he calls out for the redhead, “Jer-”

“BRUCE!”

Two arms grab Bruce from behind and cogently turn him around.

Alfred embraces his young ward, essentially weeping. “Master B!”

“A-Alfred-” Bruce gasps. Initially he was frightened, but the familiar scent of tobacco and household cleaning products greets his nose. He calms down and wraps arms around the elder man. “I’m okay.” He buries his face in Alfred’s chest, relief washing over him.

“Are you sure? Nobody hurt you? Threatened you?” Alfred refuses to let go, afraid someone might snatch him up.

“I’m 100% sure Alfred.” Bruce squirms against the vice-like hug. “You’re squeezing too tight…”

“Ah, right-” The butler relaxes his hold and gingerly cups Bruce’s face. He examines his ward, paying special attention to his wrinkled clothes and tousled hair. Wait. Was that dandruff in Bruce’s hair? No, can’t be. Alfred purchases special shampoo that would take care of such problems. Why is his hair caked in white flakes?

Bruce shrinks under Alfred’s scrutinizing gaze. “I’m fine, really.”

“Bloody hell, what happened to your neck?” Alfred thumbs over the Band-Aid.

“I fell.” Bruce pushes Alfred’s hands away, “I was at the snake exhibit and I tripped over an extension cord.”

“And I suppose the ground was littered with glass?”

“Yes, beer bottles I think.”

“Hm.” Alfred is skeptical. “Alright, c’mon then.” He lowers his arms and motions to the parking lot area. “We might have to stop and speak to a few cops, they called in the bloody brigade, hounds and everything.”

“Really? All that effort for little old me?”

“Oi! Don’t get cheeky Master B, I was ready to burn this place to the ground.”

Bruce giggles and Alfred’s worried mind settles down.

The adolescent chances a look over his shoulder but Jerome and the other guy are long gone. He returns his attention to Alfred and decidedly leans into his side.

Alfred wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders.

Jim and Harvey do a double take, halting their conversations with the other police officers. The youngest official approaches the duo and liberally questions the child. 

Ready to go home to his comfy king size bed, Bruce tries to answer each inquiry, but he loses motivation and resorts to nodding every now and then. It’s Alfred who ends the interrogation and escorts Bruce to the limousine.

Jim calls off the search.

Harvey bitches about wasting resources on the privileged. 

* * *

Jerome had a long, long, LONG day. It’s 11:30pm by the time he arrives home, in serious need of a hot shower and cuddles. He opens the screen door and tests the lock– Jeremiah left it unlocked. Good. It’s not like he remembered to take his key when Zach showed up.

Entering the trailer, Jerome barely flicks the light switch, only to be greeted by a knuckle sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't already tell, I'm ENJOYING myself, writing this piece is super fun. 
> 
> Drop a comment, what do you like so far? What do you hate? Constructive criticism?! Lay it on me!
> 
> I swear there's only one more chapter and it will involve some humor and MAYBE some blood kinks and knife play :p We'll see.
> 
> Edited on: 2-26-2020, I changed the '3 days' part to 'one week'. The circus will be there for an entire week, which will make a lot more sense for the timeline in chapter 5.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadism, masochism, physical violence, blood and knife play, mutilation, and just a dash of smut.

**KRRRK!**

Bones clash.

Fist to face.

Jerome would’ve been proud if he wasn’t the recipient of such an excruciating attack. The world flashes red and the unlucky teenager tumbles off the porch steps and crashes on his back.

Jeremiah doesn’t give his sibling time to recover. He pounces on Jerome and punches his face repeatedly. “IMBECILE!”

Imbecile? What a stupid word to use for an insult, Jerome thinks to himself. AND WHY does he always go for the face? Guess he really is Lila’s son – wants everyone to see the damage he’s inflicted. Using his arms, Jerome instinctively shields his face. “Miah what the fuck?!”

“IDIOT!” Jeremiah shouts, throwing a punch at his brother’s exposed chest. “MORON!”

By now, the adrenaline is kicking in, and his pain tolerance skyrockets. Jerome grabs his twin by the arms and abruptly shoves him backwards. 

Shocked, Jeremiah crashes into the ground, his glasses bouncing off in the process. He scrambles to his feet and-

Too late.

Jerome throws an arm around Jeremiah’s neck and locks his elbow in place. “The fuck is your problem!?”

Jeremiah gasps and claws at Jerome’s arm, leaving deep red welts. “You-” he struggles to breathe, “-are.”

“Pfft!” Jerome rolls his eyes, “Christ are you on your period again? I’m sure Lila can loan you a couple tampons-”

Without warning, Jeremiah strikes his elbow against his brother’s crotch.

Jerome’s breathe hitches mid-sentence. The assault is like a canon going off and striking him in the gut. Devastating agony short-circuits his brain; no amount of adrenaline can save him.

It’s easy to slide out of Jerome’s slack grip and that’s exactly what Jeremiah does. Afterwards, he turns around and pushes Jerome.

Unable to function, let alone defend himself, Jerome topples over. He rolls over onto his side and curls into the fetal position, while covering his groin.

Smug in his victory, Jeremiah ambles closer and touches his shoe to Jerome’s leg, eliciting a full body tremor. “Your stupidity never ceases to amaze me, _brother_.” He delivers a brutal kick to Jerome’s back, making the other redhead howl in pain.

The scream echoes throughout the circus grounds, triggering the children to panic and rush home. The adults, however, aren’t concerned – family squabbles happen _all_ the time, it’s a daily part of life.

“They’re at it again,” Zach notes. He’s sitting outside his trailer in a lawn chair, partaking in his favorite pastime.

“So it would seem.” Lila tips her cigarette and empties ashes into an empty pop can.

“Want me to break em’ up?” He puffs on his Lonsdale cigar and glances at his sister.

The only source of light is the moon and stars but the sky is clear, providing enough light to illuminate the area. From where she’s seated, Lila has an unobstructed view of her two sons battling it out over God knows what. The twins have been fighting since they were babies; the only difference now is the degree of physical violence. For her, and everybody else at Haly’s Circus, it comes as no surprise to witness one of their many spats.

“Mmm, no.” Lila motions for her brother to pass the vodka.

“Ya sure?” Zach raises the bottle to his mouth and takes a swig of Nikolai. He hisses at the bitter taste before passing it to his younger sibling.

“Yeah, let them fight it out. Boys will be boys.” Lila takes the liter bottle and shacks the clear liquid. Unlike her brother, she doesn’t fuss at the acquired taste.

Jeremiah provides another kick, this time at Jerome’s face.

Jerome shuts his eyes in time; he’s going to have one hell of a shiner in the morning. Although his face is raw and throbbing, it’s nothing compared to the fire in his pants. That’s a low blow, even for Jeremiah. He must’ve really pissed him off. Jerome wishes he could understand what he did to deserve heinous mistreatment. 

“We had HUNDREDS of fans present tonight, and _who_ do you choose? Hmm?” Jeremiah circles his brother, aiming a particularly hard kick at his spine.

Jerome clenches his jaw. “Seriously?” he strains, “_That’s_ what this is about? Some random kid?” 

In response, Jeremiah stomps on his brother’s skull.

“FUCK!” Jerome covers his head with both arms.

Jeremiah tuts. “Oh, no. Bruce is a lot of things but certainly not random.” He spots his glasses nearby, shrouded in dirt. Anger swells in his chest and he glares at his cowering brother, lacking sympathy for Jerome. “We could very well go to prison. There go our careers, our freedom, the entirety of Haly’s Circus, all because of _your_ futility.”

A manic giggle slips out of Jerome.

“…..” Jeremiah furrows his eyebrows. “What part of our dismal situation do you find humorous?”

Jerome explodes into frenzied laughter and uncovers his head to look up at his unamused twin. “YOU!” He’s squawking hard enough that a wellspring of tears erupts. “You could give two shits about what happens to Haly’s Circus! And ya sure as hell don’t give a damn what happens to me.” He raises himself into a sitting position and leers at Jeremiah. “We been doin’ this for years Miah, prison NEVER scared ya. So tell me, what’s the _real_ reason you let the brat walk?”

Jeremiah refuses to answer.

“Did you fuck him after I left the trailer?”

“….”

“You didn’t!” Jerome fake gasps. “Honestly, I’m _hurt_.”

Jeremiah snaps his eyes and shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jerome snorts. “Wanna bet?” He grins cheekily and continues. “See I think ya waited for me to leave, so you could love up on Bruce and pretend to be all sweet and caring. Then you laid out one of yer pathetic sob stories, boo hoo I hate the circus and my brother is a big, mean bully~” 

“Shut up…” Jeremiah trembles, hands balling up into tight fists.

“You convince Bruce how special he is, and how you two are connected and all that bullshit. Kid thinks he’s in love and he’s gonna see you again, am I right so far?”

Jeremiah opens his mouth-

“Wait,” Jerome interrupts, “I ain’t finished. Your master plan is to get Bruce to feel sorry for ya, sorry enough to whisk you away to his fancy mansion. He’s your one-way ticket out of this shithole and on the off chance he does go to the cops, you prepared a backstory that will make me the one and only culprit.”

“Jay-”

“Well I got news for ya. It’s a crazy scheme coming from a crazier guy, and it’s gonna fail.”

“I’m _not_ crazy,” Jeremiah says through gritted teeth. “And nothing you said is true. You’re fabricating stories again, confusing fantasy for reality. If anyone’s mentally ill here, it’s you.” 

“Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black?” Jerome giggles at his brother’s sour expression. “By the way, you hit like a _bitch_.”

The insult sends Jeremiah into a livid frenzy and he lunges at Jerome.

During the conversation, Jerome had situated his hands on the ground, undetectably gathering soil. As soon as Jeremiah draws close enough, Jerome chucks a handful of dirt into his face.

“AHHHH!!!!” Jeremiah howls at the burning sensation in his eyes. His vision distorted, he tries throwing a punch at the dark, blurry outline of his brother.

Jerome is already on his feet. He casually steps out of reach and cranks his right arm back.

Jeremiah almost stumbles and he blinks through dirty tears, attempting to locate his target.

**KRRRK! **

Blinding, white, pain envelopes Jeremiah. He sways back and forth but doesn’t fall. His bottom lip hurts and it’s throbbing…. He flicks his tongue over an open wound, realizing he must’ve cut his lip on a tooth when Jerome hit him.

“I will say one thing… You can definitely take a punch.”

Jeremiah can hear the taunting smirk in Jerome’s words. He looks towards the voice and-

**BAM!**

A gut punch renders Jeremiah incapacitated. He gags on spit and air, this time tipping over and landing on his back. Nausea rushes through him, turning his skin a sickly green. Two strong hands proceed to wrap around his neck.

Jerome sits on Jeremiah’s chest and clenches down on his windpipe. He presses fingers into warm flesh, feeling the trachea and Adam’s apple against his palms. “Maybe I am crazy, or, maybe I’m jealous you fucked Bruce without my permission.”

“J-Jay!” Jeremiah thrashes underneath, but Jerome is too heavy to overthrow.

From afar, two spectators watch the violence unfold.

Lila snaps her fingers and gives her brother a smug grin. “Called it! Now pay up ya cheapskate.”

“Yeah, yeah don’t get cocky.” Zach reaches into his pants pocket and yanks a leather wallet out. He dips his fingers into the folds and retrieves three greasy bills. He hands $60.00 over to Lila, finding her expression annoyingly charming.

“Thank you~” Lila says mockingly, earning an eye roll from Zach.

“Fuckin’ Jeremiah…” Zach takes a lengthy sip of vodka. He observes the twins but lost interest in the fight; he’s never betting on the weaker twin again.

Jeremiah has tunnel vision and it feels as though his lungs might rupture. “P-please!” He’s growing weaker by the second and hovers on the edge of consciousness. “C-can’t….breathe….Jay!”

Jerome squeezes tighter, eyes flashing at the delightful train wreck beneath him. “I’m sorry baby boy, but daddy’s gotta teach you a lesson~”

Everything around Jeremiah, including Jerome’s face, fades to black. He barely comprehends his brother’s words, his body going lax and-

**BANG!**

The unmistakable sound of gunfire shatters the night air.

Zach jolts hard enough to fall on his ass, tipping the lawn chair and bottle of vodka over.

Lila screams and hurries into the safety of her brother’s trailer.

The shot startles Jerome, who releases Jeremiah’s neck and hastily crawls off him.

Jeremiah inhales much too quickly, and much too fast. Nausea comes back, prompting him to roll over and puke all over the grass.

A bulky man trudges up to the twins, visibly agitated.

“JESUS CHRIST DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?!”

Jerome stands, cringing slightly from the stale breath and spit greeting his face. God, Owen Lloyd has the ugliest, piss-stained teeth on the planet; his rancid breath could poison a mob. The younger doesn’t reply and simply glances over Owen’s shoulder, more concerned about his sibling than anything else.

Owen pistol-whips Jerome across the face.

**SMACK!**

“OUCH!!!” Jerome cries. He covers his aching face and takes a step back, providing his undivided attention. 

“It’s 12:30 in the FUCKING MORNING and on top of that, we got a show to put on tomorrow! I don’t know about you and-” he pauses when a very sick and pale redhead staggers to his feet, “-your brother, but I need my beauty rest!”

“Sorry…” Jerome mumbles. Fuck. It’s going to require A LOT of makeup to cover the bruises on his and Jeremiah’s face.

“M-my apologies,” stammers Jeremiah, a hand over his stomach. “We didn’t mean to cause a ruckus. It will not happen again, Sir.”

“Good.” Owen shifts the pistol into his left hand and absentmindedly itches his crotch with the right. “Kill each other at a decent hour, alright?”

The Valeska twins nod.

Owen saunters back to his trailer, grumbling the entire way. He sees Lila peeking out of Zach’s trailer window and points the pistol at her. “AND YOU! DISCIPLINE YOUR FUCKING SONS AND QUIT LETTING THEM RUN AROUND ALL WILD AND CRAZY!”

Lila ducks out of view.

Jerome laughs quietly, only because Lila looks scared as shit. He wouldn’t put it past Owen to shoot her, the _whore_ owes everyone money.

Jeremiah walks past his brother and recovers his glasses. He dusts dirt off the lens, places them on, and enters the trailer without another word.

* * *

The digital clock reads 3:46am.

Jerome can’t fall asleep to save his life and for some reason, the glowing red numbers are way too bright! He throws a pillow over the digital clock, but now there’s too much moonlight filtering in through the bedroom window. Is there a fly inside the bedroom? He swears he can hear buzzing…. What if it’s a mosquito? Ugh.

Okay. That’s probably a stretch.

Green eyes flicker to the empty spot next to him and Jerome sighs unhappily. Jeremiah refused to talk or look at Jerome and after he finished showering, he retreated to the living room couch. Jerome brushed it off and went to the bedroom, secretly hoping Jeremiah would come to his senses and join him.

That didn’t happen.

Growing up it was never an option for the twins to sleep alone. They went from sleeping underneath a shoddy kitchen table, to sharing a twin mattress on the living room floor. Eventually, they wound up with their own trailer but it was equipped with a single room and bed. It wasn’t a problem for Jerome and Jeremiah, they enjoyed sleeping together – and fucking.

Jerome lays there in bed, staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours.

After some time passes, he grips the pillow and lifts it.

The digital clock now reads 3:58am.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jerome groans in frustration and decides to get out of bed. He flicks the bedroom light on, snatches a pair of boxer briefs out of the dresser, and slips them on– he likes to sleep nude. He opens the door and wanders down the hallway, making his way into the dark living room. He moves to the corner of the room and turns a lamp on.

“Turn it off and leave me alone,” Jeremiah gripes. He’s lying on his side, obscured by a blue comforter, which he pulls higher to conceal his face; his glasses are neatly folded and sitting on top of the T.V.

“Can’t sleep either huh?”

“…..”

“Hey…” Jerome shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the kid was a celeb and I understand what’s at risk... If he blabs to anyone, I’ll take the fall for it, okay? You don’t hafta worry about a thing.”

Jeremiah stays silent and unmoving.

“Miah?” Jerome hovers over his twin.

“Go away.”

Jerome bites his bottom lip and turns around, making his way to the kitchenette. He opens a drawer, reaches inside, and pulls out a cutting knife. He returns to the couch. “I get it, yer still mad. Let me make it up to you.”

Jeremiah lifts the blanket a few inches and peers at his sibling. “How?”

“You can cut me.” Jerome displays the knife, a crooked smile twisting his features. “It’s been awhile, right? Everything healed months ago.”

“Yes, too long.” Jeremiah slowly sits up, the blanket falls off his shoulders and pools around his waist. He addresses the offer cautiously. “Jay, are you sure?”

“Mhmm.” Jerome takes hold of the comforter and tugs on it.

Jeremiah leans forward while Jerome peels the blanket away and tosses it on the floor. Like his brother, he’s wearing boxer briefs and one of Jerome’s muscle shirts – initially he hoped the lingering scent would help him fall asleep, obviously it didn’t work.

Jerome climbs onto his brother’s lap, resting a leg on either side until he’s straddling Jeremiah. He places the knife in his twin’s right hand. “Take ALL your frustrations out on me~”

“I would end up killing you,” Jeremiah comments, gripping the plastic hilt. He rests his other hand on Jerome’s hip and thumbs over waistband on his briefs.

“Really? That’s so weird.” Jerome lazily drapes his arms around Jeremiah’s neck, “I couldn’t picture a more perfect death.”

“At the rate you’re going, your reckless behavior will be the death of you.” Jeremiah touches the cool blade to Jerome’s chest, trailing the tip over a map of scars.

If there was a Guinness World Record for having an unsurpassable number of scars, Jerome would win by a landslide. His chest and back are heavily concentrated in various wounds, unfortunately, his face isn’t too far behind – fistfights with people and play fights with animals share partial accountability. For the most part, Jeremiah is responsible for the growing collection of scars.

Jerome deliberately grinds his ass into his brother’s crotch, “Hurry~”

The action makes Jeremiah tremble and his cock gives an interested twitch. “Yes darling~” He applies pressure and makes the first cut. The incision stretches over four inches, blood instantly seeps out of the light wound.

It’s as though the blade is made of molten lava because the thing scorches his flesh, sending wonderful pain signals to Jerome’s brain. He mistakes it for something pleasant, like how the body might interrupt a body massage or satisfying a hard-to-reach itch. His skin tingles and he exhales a content sigh. “Wow, it really has been too long.” Jerome inclines and presses their foreheads together. “Keep it coming gorgeous, I wanna bleed~”

“Fuck.” Jeremiah’s face heats up and he stares into identical emerald orbs, seeing nothing but adoration. He gradually cuts through another piece of skin and muscle, below Jerome’s pectoral.

It doesn’t stop there.

Jeremiah moves the knife to Jerome’s naval and slices upwards, creating a long slit that nearly reaches his throat. He shifts the blade at a different angle and carves distinct shapes and lines.

In a matter of minutes, Jerome is covered in a multitude of bleeding lacerations.

Jerome is shaking, it’s his body’s natural response to physical trauma. However, there’s something else going on. He’s grown hard, like, his dick is at full salute. He’s aware that he’s putting his life in Jeremiah’s hands, one wrong move (intentional or accidental) could result in his death. Still… There’s something about satisfying Jeremiah’s power-hungry, narcissistic desires that is more intoxicating then drugs and alcohol; it surpasses common sense.

Shit. Jerome picked the wrong time to wear white boxer briefs. He chances a look down. Red stains cling to the fabric and they’re expanding in size.

Jeremiah follows Jerome’s gaze and smirks. “Look who’s on their period.”

“Fuck you.”

“Only if you say please.”

“You can take _please_ and shove it up yer ass.”

Jeremiah is about to respond but Jerome silences him with a kiss. The sheer aggression stuns the redhead; he doesn’t have time to react before he’s drowning on his brother’s tongue.

Jerome willfully sinks his teeth into Jeremiah’s injured lip, causing him to flinch.

“Ouch…” Jeremiah jerks his head away and makes quick work of Jerome’s boxer briefs. He inserts the knife underneath the waistband and slices through it. He repeats this to the adjacent hip and rips the material away, discarding it on the floor.

The sight itself is disconcerting and yet Jeremiah salivates. There it is, Jerome’s nine-inch cock, saturated in blood, the tip gleaming shiny and pink. Even his pubic hair is brighter, more vibrant after soaking in fresh blood.

Jeremiah wraps his free hand around the crimson shaft and pumps him.

“Oooh, fuck.” Jerome thrusts into his sibling’s hand, blood and pre-cum acting as a lubricant. He carefully plucks the knife from Jeremiah and begins carving into his briefs. He sets the knife down, pulls the cloth apart and frees Jeremiah’s erect length. Jerome ogles the milky white rivulets leaking from the slit, an indicator of Jeremiah’s excitement. He licks his lips, anxious for a taste.

The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed. Jeremiah strokes his hand across Jerome’s chest, intentionally smearing and collecting bodily fluids. He takes the initiative, wrapping a blood-slick palm around both of them.

They rut together, feverish and desperate.

Jeremiah’s breathing too fast and not enough all at once.

Jerome tangles a hand in Jeremiah’s hair and tongue fucks him dirty, earning a needy whine from Jeremiah. A thought occurs to Jerome, one that’s crossed his mind on several occasions. What would it be like to let Jeremiah bend him over? See, Jeremiah is big. Like, intimidatingly _big_. Jerome isn’t sure if he could take it all on the first go and he doesn’t like doing things he won’t immediately be good at. Maybe he could-

Teeth clamp down, driving a scream out of Jerome and forcing him to yank his head back. His tongue is throbbing and blood sloshes out of the puncture marks where Jeremiah bit him. Incredulous, he stares at his twin, his movements ceasing.

“You said you wanted to bleed~” Jeremiah purrs in his sticky sweet voice.

Jerome swallows blood and saliva, “No shit Sherlock.”

Jeremiah’s mouth twitches into a scowl and his hand stops moving. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Means yer going soft.” Jerome shrugs and mocks a bored yawn. “So ya made a few cuts and bit my tongue. Big deal. What happened to you Miah? Did your balls fall off?”

Suddenly, Jeremiah grabs his brother by the shoulders and body-slams him into the floor.

Jerome grunts on impact and looks up to see Jeremiah on top of him and he’s biting into the plump flesh that is his cheekbone. Those sharp canines rip into the flesh, earning a pain-filled cry from Jerome.

But it doesn’t stop there.

Jeremiah shoves his fingers into the wounds decorating his sibling’s chest. He claws into the meaty flesh and deliberately drags his fingernails down. Pieces of skin and muscle tear off, littering the floor around them.

Overwhelming pain reduces Jerome to a bleeding, whimpering mess. Jeremiah is ripping him apart, like literally_,_ and all it took was a few insults. Stubborn lil shit, Jerome thinks to himself. He’s pleased with the response, no he’s _overjoyed_. Jeremiah Valeska is a prude who believes he’s better than everyone else. He’s smarter, goal orientated, and controls every aspect of his life – it’s this need for control that resulted in Jeremiah’s façade. He’s not temperamental, violent, impulsive, reckless, and he certainly doesn’t have a blood kink. Oh no, no, no, he’s _very_ normal, and not a freak like his brother.

Jeremiah lets go of Jerome’s bleeding cheek and latches onto his jaw instead.

Jerome is so turned on he feels dizzy – blood loss could be accountable. He wraps his arms around Jeremiah and grinds against him. “Fuck, baby boy. Make me so goddamn horny~”

Hard as stone and aching, Jeremiah wraps a bloody hand around their cocks. A guttural moan escapes. “Daddy~” He rocks his hips, while twisting his hand up and down their lengths.

“Fuck.” Jerome thrusts into Jeremiah’s hand. Fast. Can’t contain himself.

Jeremiah matches his brother’s fast pace, heat already curling inside him.

They climax together. It’s sudden. Intense.

Jerome shivers as his hips jerk, spilling hot seed over himself and Jeremiah’s hand.

Jeremiah gives a throaty moan as he comes, back arching while he adds to the mess on Jerome’s chest.

The twins tremble through the aftershocks and after a few minutes, Jeremiah sits up. His green eyes travel over the bloody mess that hardly resembles a human torso. The cuts appear to be random lines but the twins know better. When viewed closely, the bleeding wounds shape the letters 'JV', and Jerome is COVERED from head to toe in JV scars. _Property of Jeremiah Valeska_, that's what it means. Jeremiah proudly admires his work and how the blood flows through Jerome’s cum, turning it a pale shade of pink. He drags a finger through it and licks it up.

Jerome quirks an eyebrow.

Jeremiah leans down and kisses him, pushing some of the bloody jizz into Jerome’s mouth.

The gross kiss provokes an amused giggle. “Yer disgusting.”

Jeremiah licks a sloppy kiss out of Jerome’s mouth. “And would you have me any other way?”

“Newwwp!”

“That’s what I thought.” Jeremiah kisses around the bite mark on his brother’s face. “Let’s get you patched up.” 

“Huh?” Jerome blinks; he’s lightheaded so he doesn’t know if he heard correctly. “Finished already? What about my back?”

“Mmm, I think you’ve lost enough blood for now love~”

Jerome sighs loudly, “Fine.”

Jeremiah lets out a soft huff and plants a kiss on Jerome’s nose, earning him a tiny smile.

* * *

It’s almost 5:30am by the time the twins return to their bedroom.

Both are freshly showered and dawning clean pajama pants and shirts. Jerome, however, doesn’t like to sleep in clothes but Jeremiah insisted upon it, something about keeping him from scratching the bandages off. Whatever. Jerome is too tired to argue.

They’re spooning, with Jeremiah being the little spoon and Jerome’s arm secure around his waist.

Jerome nuzzles into Jeremiah’s hair, nearly asleep.

“It isn’t true,” Jeremiah murmurs quietly.

“What’s not true?” Jerome says between a yawn.

“You said I don’t give a damn what happens to you…. That’s an incorrect statement.”

“Miah-”

Jeremiah wiggles around until he’s facing Jerome. “I _do_ care, Jay. I’m concerned about you, about us and our future together.”

“Pfft, you worry too much.” Jerome twists a lock of hair around his finger.

“No. I worry just the right amount.” Jeremiah cups Jerome’s face, being extra careful not to apply too much pressure to the bandaged cheekbone. “Haly’s Circus won’t be around forever and if by chance Owen doesn’t run it into the ground, I don’t want to die here. The circus isn’t our legacy Jay. We’re destined for bigger and better things.”

“Like what?” Jerome pulls his brother closer.

“Like…. College, for starters.”

Jerome rolls his eyes.

“And, higher paying jobs. Instead of relinquishing 60% of our earnings to Haly’s Circus, we could keep everything for ourselves! 100% you and me.”

“Hmm…” Jerome’s attention is piqued.

“I could go to school while you work. We’ll get a spacious studio apartment for now, until I finish my degree. I’ll solicit clients and engineer groundbreaking structures, the whole world will know my name. Then I can afford a house and you can afford to retire. I’ll take care of you Jay. I’ll spoil and pamper you, until you forget everything, except the love I feel for you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

It’s hard to embarrass a guy like Jerome Valeska, however, those stupid, nauseating, sweet words get to him. He blushes bright red and his heart races. Hell yeah it sounds nice, but it also sounds like an unobtainable dream.

Jeremiah is full of hope and aspirations, whereas Jerome accepted his fate years ago. That’s the biggest difference between them, and sometimes, Jerome feels bad for his brother. Jeremiah gets so caught up in his delusions that he starts believing them to be real. Whatever the future may hold, Jerome is going to protect Jeremiah at all costs, even if he has to protect him from himself. 

“Sounds like a good plan, Miah.” Jerome lays flat on his back.

“Really? You think so?” Jeremiah presses his forehead against the crook of Jerome’s neck, slipping his hands under Jerome’s arms in a hug.

Jerome wraps his arms around his twin, running fingers over the indents of his ribs and spine in calming circles. “Mhmm.”

“You also misinterpreted my plan involving Bruce Wayne.”

“Jesus, I been getting a lot of shit wrong today, huh?”

“Yes, it’s quite bothersome.” Jeremiah hears the scoff and chuckles lightly.

“What’s yer _ingenious_ plan then? Hold the kid for ransom?” 

“No.” Jeremiah snuggles into his brother’s warmth. “Bruce is lonely and in need of companionship. My plan is to manipulate his emotions and get him to feel sorry for us, so much in fact, he’ll want to rescue us from the bad man.”

“Bad man?”

“Owen Lloyd. I’m going to tell Bruce all the awful things he’s done to us growing up, and what he _still_ does when no one is looking. Our traumatic upbringing will bring Bruce to tears and he’ll want to save us.” Jeremiah raises his head and looks into Jerome’s eyes. “And we’ll let him.”

“Oh, shit…. That’s kinda fucked up and _crazy_.”

Jeremiah wrinkles his nose.

“Crazy enough to work~” Jeremiah adds with a smirk. He kisses the bridge of Jeremiah’s nose, “God yer so stinking cute, ya know that right?”

“Cute is for small house pets,” Jeremiah huffs touchily.

“Okay, fiiiiine.” Jerome throws a hard smack over Jeremiah’s butt, “Sexy?”

Jeremiah jolts slightly, his face burning. “I’ll accept the proposed word, for now.”

Jerome squeezes his brother’s ass. “Okay sexy, what’s gonna happen if Bruce Wayne takes us in?”

“Hmm…” Jeremiah rests against Jerome’s chest; his ear picks up on the steady heartbeat. “We’ll make him subservient, to only us. His money could send me to a proper school and you wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard to put food on the table.”

“So….. Not a sugar daddy…. But a sugar baby?” Jerome laughs at the imagery. “That could be fun but what if he snitches on us?”

“I have a backup plan involving Bruce’s underwear and Owen’s pubes.”

“What the?..... How in the actual fuck did you get- YOU KNOW WHAT NEVER MIND!” Jerome shudders, “I don’t wanna know but uh, isn't our DNA on Bruce’s underwear though?”

“I can alter the material, which will provide inconclusive results. As long as the cops look into Owen’s criminal history, nobody will be paying attention to us.”

“Sheesh….” Jerome is kind of blown away by Jeremiah’s meticulous planning. “Guy’s got a rap sheet longer than a python. He’s every cop’s wet dream.”

“Mhmm and if need be, we can gather our belongings and run away.”

“And join a Russian circus?”

“Yes my darling, whatever your heart desires~”

“D’awww, sweet as candy~” Jerome rests his chin over Jeremiah’s head. “Give a guy a toothache why don’t cha?”

“If Bruce adopts us, he can afford new teeth for you.”

“HAHA! Go to bed already, yer talking nonsense.”

Jeremiah smiles and closes his eyes. "Jay?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for starting the fight, hitting you, and fucking Bruce behind your back... I'm sorry for all of it." 

"S'okay. I'm sorry about punching you and scratching up yer glasses." Jerome yawns loudly, sleepy tears blurring his vision. 

"Oh, that's alright, no apologies necessary." Jeremiah hugs his brother tighter, "What on earth did I do to deserve an amazing brother like you?" 

Too exhausted to come up with a witty retort, Jerome opts to kiss Jeremiah on the forehead, "Love you~" 

"I love you too~" 

They seal their apology with a heartfelt kiss.

Jeremiah lays his head back down and the sound of Jerome’s heartbeat eventually lulls him to sleep.

Jerome crashes out soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't figure out how to wrap this one up, so I thought, why not do another chapter?!?!
> 
> Poor Jay, he's gonna look and feel like shit when he wakes up. Also, I always loved the idea of the twins carving each other's names into each other's bodies, so I decided to incorporate it. 
> 
> Thoughts? Feelings? Do I put the fun in dysfunctional relationships?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, guys, guys, please read the updated tags. There's some unaddressed trauma here, and mention of suicidal idealization. I wasn't sure if starving one's self is considered self-harm? If so, that's also mentioned. 
> 
> PROCEED WITH CAUTION! This chapter could be triggering for some.

Bruce reaches behind himself, gingerly pressing two fingers between his buttocks. He winces, brings his hand around again, and stares at his stained fingertips. Burning crimson. A painful souvenir of his experience at Haly’s Circus.

He feels numb. A few steps removed from reality.

**Drip.**

**Drip.**

The faint sound turns deafening as it bounces off the tiled walls, filling the space inside the bathroom like a tidal wave. It reaches Bruce’s ears and slingshots him back to reality. 

They raped him.

Jerome and Jeremiah Valeska drugged and raped him.

It’s THEIR mess leaking out of him and dripping into the toilet, including Bruce’s blood.

“Oh my God…” He exhales a shuddering gasp, oblivious to the rupture of tears. Trembling hands grip a roll of toilet paper and he tries to wipe the blood off his fingers.

It all becomes too much, and his fragile psyche implodes.

Bruce drops the roll of toilet paper and buries his face in his hands. A series of excruciating sobs wrecks his tiny frame. Breathing soon becomes an impossible task and he starts choking on tears and spit. It takes every ounce of strength for the adolescent to get his breathing under control, lest he passes out from hyperventilating. 

Once he does manage to inhale, it hurts, as if the air is contaminated.

_ <strike>“Can I see you again?” Bruce whispers against the kiss.</strike> _

_ <strike>Jeremiah hums in acknowledgement, “Of course.” </strike> _

Self-loathing and disgust strike Bruce across the face, dragging out agonizing whimpers. He can’t believe those words came from his own mouth! What makes it even worse is the sincerity behind his request. He intended to visit the two men who held him down and hurt him, stealing away his innocence and infecting him with their evil.

Bruce hates the Valeska twins, or at least that’s what he tells himself… It’s normal to hate people who intentionally cause harm, right? ‘People’ is much too nice of an expression. They’re monsters. Monsters who preyed on his trusting nature. They made him scream, cry, and beg, while kissing away his tears and showering him in mock affection and compliments.

They humiliated him, made him feel weak and incompetent.

Ultimately, those monsters made him feel _special_, if even for a couple of minutes.

Yes, Bruce wants to see Jeremiah and Jerome but only to perpetuate the same emotional and physical trauma they inflicted upon him. He’ll make them hurt and bleed too.

_ <strike>“You are the prettiest thing in this godforsaken city.”</strike> _

A defeated cry filters through Bruce’s fingers. That charming, STUPID smile. He can’t seem to forget it. It makes his heart flutter and at the same time it feels like somebody is punching him in the gut.

“Master Bruce?”

The younger male jolts in place and looks up in panic. Crap. Did he forget to lock the bathroom door?!

Alfred has never been one to enter rooms without prior approval. However, he made an exception in this case. He grips the bathroom doorknob and turns-

* * *

Scotch and two cubes of ice. Simple, stout, and ideal for Alfred Pennyworth when he’s had a stressful day. He acquired the taste for malt whiskey during his time at Wayne Manor. It was Thomas’s favorite drink and the bloke liked to drabble on about how ice releases it’s wonderful aromas and flavors. In Alfred’s opinion, it’s absolute rubbish. Scotch tasted the same with or without ice.

His tie loosened and his suit jacket hanging up, Alfred is currently sitting at the dining room table, alone. He could sit in the kitchen where there’s a much smaller table but he doesn’t want to risk Bruce walking in on him.

On one past occasion, Alfred drank himself into utter oblivion and he’d passed out at the kitchen table – it was two weeks after Thomas and Martha Wayne’s funeral. He woke up the next morning to find a blanket around his shoulders, a glass of water in front of him, and a bottle of generic painkillers next to it. There’s a yellow sticky note attached to the glass and in Bruce’s legible, cursive handwriting, it reads: _Arranged transportation for school. Please drink plenty of water and get some rest._

Since then Alfred has taken to drinking in the green house OR the dining room where they used to host large social events. It’s a vast space, empty and full of hollow memories. Bruce doesn’t venture here, and Alfred couldn’t blame him; they haven’t used the dining room in ages. It is here he sits, drink in hand, contemplating today’s events.

The sinking feeling in his gut informs Alfred that he ought to question Bruce again, make him retell the series of events that transpired during their separation at the circus. He thinks about the car ride home.

During the time, Alfred attempted to press his ward for more information. Bruce had been missing for six BLOODY hours! Where did he go? Who was he with? Did somebody threaten him? Who dare put their hands on him?! Alfred’s initial suspicions are confirmed after the Band-Aid fell off the kid’s neck, revealing an unsightly wound. Butler served as a field medic during the war, he’d recognize a battle injury ANYWHERE.

Unfortunately, Bruce denied up and down that anybody harmed him. He kept insisting it was an _accident_, sticking to his claim of ‘falling down’ inside the reptile tent and injuring himself. He grew irritated at the never-ending questions and eventually snapped at the butler to leave him be.

By the time they reached the manor, Bruce had fallen quiet and refused to speak.

Interrogation unsuccessful.

“_Who_ are you afraid of, Bruce?” mumbles Alfred. He tips the glass back and inhales another gulp of cold Scotch. He thought about the way Bruce was walking, with that awkward, subtle limp in his step. He noticed it back at the circus and thought nothing of it until they arrived at the manor. Bruce couldn’t hide the grimace on his face, and it sent Alfred’s allegations spiraling out of control. He didn’t want to think the worst but…. Was it possible someone sexually assaulted Bruce?

Alfred nearly chokes on his drink. He sets the glass down on the tabletop – a little too loudly – and hunches over in his seat. Elbows resting on his knees, he buries his face in his hands and shudders at the disturbing indication. If an assault occurred, Bruce would’ve told him, or at the very least the authorities who were in the vicinity. He wouldn’t keep something like that to himself, would he? No, he’s a smart lad who knows right from wrong.

Still, the man couldn’t shake this awful, dreadful inkling. Bruce was withholding information. Maybe he’s afraid of his attackers? Or worse, he could be afraid of how Alfred will respond.

“That bloody settles it.” Alfred swallows the remainder of his beverage and promptly vacates the dining hall. He marches up the flight of stairs and travels towards Bruce’s bedroom.

The butler pauses, caught off guard by the ajar door and bedroom lights. It’s almost 3:00 am and Bruce should be asleep by now. Alfred slips through the narrow opening, hoping to see Bruce in bed or reading a book as he often does on nights he can’t fall asleep.

Both desk and bed are empty.

Alfred’s gaze travels to the closed bathroom door, lights illuminating from within. His heart stops for a second because he’s almost certain Bruce is crying from within. He walks up to the door and knocks urgently. “Master Bruce?”

* * *

The muffled cries halt immediately, only lingering silence remains.

Concerned for his ward, Alfred twists the doorknob-

**Click.**

It’s locked.

Alfred furrows his eyebrows and addresses the child in a soft, concerned tone. “Everything okay, Master B?”

“Y-yes,” Bruce squeaks after a minute.

It’s hardly believable and Alfred considers taking Bruce to the hospital. Albeit, it’s early in the morning and it’s not as though the boy is missing a limb or gushing blood… It could end up being a long wait in the emergency room, and if the paparazzi caught whiff of Bruce’s hospital visit, they’d more than likely blow it out of proportion; Gotham Gazette’s leading headline will include Bruce and some obscure story about self-harm or physical assault, anything to grab the buyer’s attention.

The second option includes a phone call to Isaac Whitaker, an old physician who has been serving the Wayne family for generations. At a 3:00 am call, Mr. Whitaker will understand, and he’ll do everything in his power to make his visit as discrete as possible. He could examine Bruce, determine what _really_ happened at Haly’s Circus and-

“Alfred?”

The butler put a stop to his racing thoughts and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“I need privacy…”

“Privacy? Why? What are you doing in there?”

Bruce blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Pooping.” He cringes afterwards and slaps a hand to his forehead.

Alfred feels like an idiot for asking. “Right…. Do you need anything? Prune juice perhaps?”

“This is humiliating…” Bruce whispers, his face burning hot. “No that’s okay! I’m a-almost done.”

“Okay.” Alfred hovers.

Bruce chews on his bottom lip, growing more anxious by the second. Against his better judgement, he stands and winces at the sharp prick of pain. He pulls his stained briefs and pants up, movements careful and meticulous. He zips his pants, tosses the soiled tissue inside the toilet, and flushes it. He moves to the kitchen sink and proceeds to wash his hands clean, the water turning pink and fading to clear. He dries his hands on a clean hand towel and moves to unlock the bathroom door.

Alfred takes a step backwards.

Inhaling a deep breath, Bruce opens the door and puts on a brave face. “See? I’m going to shower and get ready for bed.” He’s about to close the bathroom door again but waits, “Alfred?”

The older man exhales a relieved sigh and raises his gaze to meet Bruce’s astounding blue hues. “Yes, Master B?”

“Can you open a window on your way out?” And with that, Bruce shuts the bathroom door and locks it again.

Alfred is more than a tad embarrassed and he’s going to ask Bruce to forgive him for his rude intrusion, possibly by cooking up a glamorous breakfast in the morning. He crosses the bedroom and opens one of Bruce’s windows, although, he couldn’t detect any unsavory odors… He attributes his paucity of smell to alcohol and brushes his suspicions away. By the time he leaves Bruce’s bedroom, the soft pitter-patter of the shower is going.

* * *

Bruce waits for Alfred to exit the bedroom before fumbling with the knobs above the tub and shutting the water off. He’s seated on the edge of the tub, still fully clothed, and still distraught. He was THIS close to bursting into tears and telling Alfred _everything_. Shame and guilt kept him from doing so and with that reasoning, he didn’t deserve to shower. He didn’t deserve to feel clean.

The raven strips his soiled clothes and stuffs them in the bathroom bin. He then yanks the trash bag out and ties it together, his gaze moving around the bathroom as he looks for a hiding spot. Alfred is fastidious when it comes to cleaning; the bathroom probably wasn’t the safest place the hide the ‘evidence’.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Bruce pads out of the bathroom and moves to a corner in his bedroom. He kneels before an air vent and sets the trash bag aside. Nimble fingers slip through the metal openings and grip tightly; he prays the screws are loose enough to pry open. Bruce concentrates and his muscles tense. He grunts and jerks the vent cover off in one go-

The screws come undone and bounce away on the floor, while the metal clangs after the brutal removal.

Bruce freezes and he looks to the bedroom door, knowing the sound might echo off the walls; it’s a big house, the tiniest noises are notorious for echoing.

Silence.

Bruce lets out the breath he’s been holding, and he carefully sets the air vent down. He picks up the trash bag containing his sullied clothes and stuffs them deep inside the opening. He pushes the bag all the way back, as far as his hand can reach, until he can’t feel plastic anymore. He replaces the air vent and picks up the screws, twisting them in place afterwards.

According to the watch on Bruce’s nightstand, it’s 4:38 am. He removes the towel from his waist and lays it down across the mattress, just in case….. _Just. In. Case._ That’s as far he’ll allow his mind to go. He slips on a pair of clean briefs and pajama pants, with a matching fleece shirt. He crawls underneath fluffy comforters and collapses against silk sheets. He thought it would be difficult to fall asleep but after ten minutes, exhaustion overcomes him, whisking Bruce away into peaceful darkness.

* * *

Alfred regrets indulging in another nightcap. He didn’t eat or drink or any water before going to bed and he’s paying for his mistake.

Armed with sunglasses, apron, and spatula, the butler stands in front of the hot oven, flipping bacon and blueberry pancakes. The aroma makes his stomach churn and he had to pause every few minutes to let the nausea pass. He’s got tea and coffee prepared but the only beverage for him is a tall bloody mary, which he keeps hidden in one of the upper cupboards.

It’s nearly 8:00 am and there’s no sign of Bruce.

“Breakfast in bed it is,” he declares quietly. Alfred plates the pancakes, bacon, cheese-stuffed omelet, and an assortment of fresh fruit. He sets the plate on a silver tray before filling three cups; one with tea, one with coffee, and one with orange juice, in case Bruce wasn’t in the mood for warm beverages. He places a ceramic cover over the plate of food to keep it warm and grabs the butter and syrup from the fridge; they’re organic and have a low sugar-content.

Alfred drinks the remainder of his bloody mary and consumes a crunchy piece of asparagus at the bottom of the glass. He washes the glass in the sink, distributes it in the dishwasher, dries his hands on his apron, and reluctantly removes his sunglasses. He tucks them into the breast pocket of his apron and picks the silver tray up from the counter.

Steady footsteps climb the flight of stairs and Alfred makes his way to Bruce’s bedroom at the end of the hallway. Upon arriving, Alfred shifts the tray onto his left hand and uses his right to knock. “Master B? Are you decent?”

There’s no movement but Bruce’s voice carries through the closed door. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re not asleep if you can respond,” Alfred deadpans.

“I’m not hungry.” Bruce’s voice is raspy, somewhere between amused and annoyed.

Alfred hesitates but adds, “I’ll leave your meal on the nightstand, eh? Should you get hungry, or thirsty.”

A long pause follows and much to the butler’s relief, Bruce says: “Come in.”

The door clicks open and Alfred enters the bedroom. To his surprise the window is fastened shut and all the curtains are drawn, leaving Bruce’s bedroom in complete darkness. Alfred can’t see, so he cautiously walks over to the bathroom and flicks the light on.

Light illuminates a portion of the room, revealing a pale face peering from underneath blankets; Bruce’s eyes are red and swollen. 

Alfred gasps.

Bruce pushes the blankets down to his waist and slowly sits up. “What?”

“Nothing.…. Have you been crying?”

“No.” Bruce shakes his head, “Some dirt got into my eyes when I was at the circus, I thought I flushed all of it out.”

“I’ve got eye drops downstairs, should I fetch it for you?” Alfred sets the tray of food on Bruce’s nightstand.

“Sure.” Bruce’s head throbs. He digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. Maybe if he pops his eyeball like a water balloon, he can reach the pain behind it. When that doesn’t seem to get him close enough, he presses against both temples like a vice.

“Headache?”

Bruce nods.

“And I thought my hangover was bad,” Alfred remarks.

“I beg your pardon?” Bruce looks up.

“I’ll be right back with those eye drops and painkillers, yeah?”

“Okay, thank you Alfred.” Bruce resumes lying down, and he pulls the blankets over his head.

Alfred exits the bedroom and rushes downstairs to grab painkillers and Visine eye drops, including a first-aid kit; he wants to examine the injury on Bruce’s neck.

However, when Alfred returns to Bruce’s bedroom, he discovers the raven fast asleep and this time Bruce doesn’t stir, even when Alfred made gentle attempts to wake him.

* * *

Bruce skips breakfast that morning. He also skips lunch and dinner. He leaves the trays untouched and proceeds to sleep the entire day away, only getting up once to relieve his bladder.

Alfred questions Bruce about his lack of appetite, to which Bruce responds: “Flu bug.” The butler wants to call bullshit, but he bites his tongue whenever Bruce blames his odd behavior on being sick. He’s treated a number of sick soldiers during the war AND different members of the Wayne family; he knows, without a hint of uncertainty, that whatever’s ailing Bruce is NOT a result of the flu.

* * *

Day two.

Bruce develops a habit of locking his door, forcing Alfred to leave his food outside the bedroom. The boy doesn’t change his clothes, nor does he attempt to shower. There’s an aching sensation in his rear and he becomes painfully aware of it when he’s sitting up or walking around, so he opts to lie in bed for as long as possible.

Every hour on the dot, Alfred is at Bruce’s door, knocking and asking him if he needs anything.

It’s bothersome, especially when he has to leave the comforting darkness behind and return to a detestable reality.

“M’fine, Alfred.”

“You haven’t touched your food. Can I prepare something else?”

“No…”

“You need to eat and drink fluids. Thee, um, flu, will dehydrate you fast. Can you drink your water and orange juice, please?”

Alfred’s insistence frustrates Bruce and he knows he can’t get rid of the butler if he keeps denying him. “Fine. After my nap I’ll drink whatever you set out for me, okay?”

“Okay, thank you Master B.” Alfred leaves.

Bruce burrows deeper under the covers, relieved.

So relieved.

He falls asleep.

* * *

Day three.

Bruce wakes up when his body says he can’t sleep anymore.

It’s dark out and the clock says 8:00 pm. He stumbles out of bed, uses the bathroom, and wanders over to the bedroom door. He unlocks it and opens it, the frame squeaking on ancient hinges.

For a long time, Bruce just stands there, staring at the tray of food on the floor. There are two pitchers of water nearly overflowing; all the ice had melted.

Eventually he forgets why he’s standing there and walks back into the bedroom, closing the door and locking it afterwards. Bruce moves to the windows and draws a curtain back, revealing Gotham City and it’s dancing lights. Gotham is as busy at night as it is during the day. It’s a city that never sleeps.

Bruce sits on the window ledge and watches a helicopter sore over the city, only to disappear behind a skyscraper. He can hear car alarms in the distance, blaring sirens from firetrucks, and screeching breaks to match the screaming drivers. He presses his forehead against the chilly glass and looks directly down, towards the pavement. It’s not too far but still, he wonders what falling feels like. Whether he’d be scared or …. Numb. Numb, like he’s been for the past few days.

It probably wouldn’t kill him, seeing as how his bedroom is on the second floor. What if he gets into the attic and climbs to the rooftop? That HAS to be at least five floors, right? Maybe if he angles it correctly, dives head-first into the paved parking lot, the impact could fracture his skull or break his neck. Bruce wonders how Alfred would explain that… _Billionaire Bruce Wayne, splattered across his own front yard: Accident or foul play?_

He pictures himself as a ghost, watching this whole thing unfold. Do ghosts linger? Bruce is pretty sure he’d stay behind and haunt Wayne Manor. That would be cool.

* * *

It’s 11:30 pm and Bruce can’t sleep. He’s lying in bed, flat on his back. His eye’s won’t focus and he’s somewhat disorientated and very, very tired.

Bruce’s stomach is hollow. Empty. It doesn’t growl, but it does ache. It’s a strange phenomenon…. He could get up right now, go downstairs and fill his stomach. He just…doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to.

* * *

Day four; 6:15 am.

Bruce hasn’t been able to fall asleep. What’s worse is being awake gives him time to feel what the Valeska twins left inside him.

There’s a frightening pain in his chest and it spreads throughout his body; a dirty infection he can’t cure. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before. He was growing accustomed to the numbness. Why can’t he fall asleep and be numb again? Why? Why? Why?

He doesn’t have a choice. He can’t sleep it away this time.

Everything hurts.

It hurts to breathe.

It hurts to blink.

It hurts to keep his eyes open.

_This hurts_, the pain says to him. _Please, for the love of God, please make it stop._

“I-I don’t know how,” Bruce’s voice trembles. “What hurts? What’s wrong?”

_This. Everything. Your life. It hurts so bad. _

Bruce buries his face in his pillow and sobs.

* * *

Alfred has a breakfast tray in hand and he’s tapping on Bruce’s door. “Master B?”

No answer.

Another habit formed; Bruce blatantly ignoring Alfred.

“Listen,” Alfred sighs like an impatient parent on the verge of reprimanding their child. “If you don’t open this bloody door, I’m going to call Mr. Whitaker. You haven’t left your room in three days and you’re not eating-”

It was the final straw for Bruce. He jumps out of bed, stomps over to the door, and violently rips it open, startling the butler in return. All that negativity bottled up in his chest, crushing his heart and lungs and making it impossible to breathe, bursts out of him all at once.

“FUCK YOU! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! YOU’RE ALWAYS TALKING! YOU NEVER SHUT UP! I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ANYTHING YOU’RE SAYING!” Bruce pants heavily, his shoulders quivering from overwhelming pressure to maintain his composure, “Just let me be.”

The silence practically rings.

Alfred stares, eyes wide and unblinking.

Bruce feels something _good_ for the first time in days, like some of the weight had been lifted off his chest. He’ll understand if Alfred yells at him or punches him in the face; as unlikely as that would be, he’ll understand. He waits for the older man to respond, anticipation had his heart racing a thousand miles per second. 

And then Alfred says, “Okay…. Okay, Bruce. I’ll leave you alone.” His expression doesn’t betray the hurt in his voice as he promptly turns and carries the tray away. 

The bedroom door closes, and Bruce locks it.

The butler doesn’t return. No hourly check-ins and no meals. Just as he said.

* * *

The hurt doesn’t leave.

Bruce tries to stuff it down. Tries to build walls all around it to keep it contained, but the second his mind lapses and thinks about _them_, the walls implode. The pain skyrockets and there’s a flood of tears that follow. The crying overrides everything, for as long as it wants. Sometimes, it comes in waves without the promise of ending.

It’s not a release. Bruce hurts, physically, all the time. His stomach, his lungs, his eyes, his head, his nose, it all hurts. Crying is a drain on the body. It takes a lot of energy and now a days, Bruce doesn’t have much to spare.

So, maybe it’s a good thing he cries for as long as he does, because he almost immediately falls asleep when he’s done.

Peaceful darkness.

He’s allowed a temporary escape, a chance to feel numb again.

* * *

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

“Come on, pick up.” Alfred said, as though the person on the other end could sense his urgency.

_“Bruce? What’s up?”_

“Um, not Bruce. This is his butler, Alfred.”

_“….Okay? How the hell did you get this number?” _

“I clean Bruce’s bedroom every day, you think I wouldn’t have noticed a scribbled phone number in his dresser?”

_“Dude! Total invasion of privacy-”_

Alfred interrupts. “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t an emergency.” He’s doing his best to speak calmly, however, he can hear the stress in his own voice. “It’s Bruce… I can’t…. He needs help and I can’t get through to him.” It’s the worst thing he’s ever said in his life. He’s admitting failure and requesting help from a vagrant. What has the world come to?

Silence.

Prolonged silence.

Alfred doesn’t hear anything on the receiver, even though it’s virtually smashed against his ear. Perhaps the other party lost interest. “Look-”

_“I’ll stop by tonight. Make some of your butterscotch oatmeal cookies, okay?” _

Before Alfred can get a word in, the phone line clicks and trails off in a series of beeping noises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute since I wrote anything and updated one of my fics! 
> 
> I've been lacking in motivation, I sorry~ That and the world is chaotic right now. I don't know about you but this pandemic messed everything up. It's no fun being on lock down, which doesn't help my depression. But blah blah blah let's get back to the story-
> 
> I was going to have it to where Bruce ends up with the twins again because he doesn't quite know how to process his trauma, and he's bonded to them, whether he likes it or not. "Trauma bonding" is legitimate, it's similar to Stockholm Syndrome. But I felt like that would be a cheap way to rush and end this fic.... So nope. I wanted to detail Bruce's suffering in a way that was realistic? Remember, we all deal with depression and trauma in different ways and this was just a version I felt comfortable with. 
> 
> With that being said, more chapters to come.


	6. Chapter 6

The days blur into one another, creating a confusing mess where time is nonexistent. Bruce chases sleep like a desperate wolf chasing sheep, but he fails every time. Sleep evades him and he’s tossing and turning, sometimes screaming at the top of his lungs into a pillow until he loses his voice. He cries until he runs dry and just when he believes he’s done, another fountain of burning, itchy tears grace his face.

Bruce stops looking at his watch. It doesn’t matter what time it is, Alfred isn’t going to bother him anymore. Occasionally, he feels a sharp pang of hunger in his hollow stomach, never concerning enough for him to seek food. He’s used the bathroom maybe three times since his return from Haly’s Circus and although he should be concerned about his health, Bruce simply can’t find the energy to care.

He may as well be dead.

Numb forever.

It sounds like a wishful dream, and Bruce keeps wishing for permanent numbness.

* * *

Day six; 10:07 pm.

**Knock. **

**Knock.**

Bruce groans from underneath a mountain of blankets. ‘Go away,’ he pleads in his mind, ‘Leave me alone.’

**Knock.**

**Knock.**

“GO AWAY!” Bruce shouts.

“Rude.”

Faster than the blink of an eye, Bruce bolts up and stares into the darkness. His eyes take about a minute to adjust. 

“Is that how you treat all your guests? No wonder why you don’t have any friends.”

Bruce looks away from the bedroom door and to the windows, where one of them was unlatched and open. Standing in front of the window, her silhouette illuminated by Gotham City lights, is none other then Selina Kyle. She wasn’t knocking on the door at all, it was from outside of the windows.

“Selina?...” Bruce didn’t doubt his brain's capabilities of creating hallucinations. 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” Selina uncrosses her arms and walks over to the bed.

“What are you doing here?”

“Alfred called, said you needed help-” Selina nears the bed but stops after a picking up a putrid scent. She slaps a hand over nose and mouth. “Oh my God! What’s that _smell_?! Are you trying to break a world record for the longest days without a shower or something?”

Bruce manages a weak smile. “Hah…. Something like that.” He can’t smell anything, maybe he’s grown accustomed to lying in his own filth. It wasn’t fair Selina had to endure it. “I’m sorry.” He gestures to the door. “You should leave, I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”

“…..” Selina lowers her hand; the severity of the situation finally dawns upon her. Bruce was always a thin kid but now? Now he’s gaunt, skeletal almost. His eyes are bloodshot, and there’s dark bags under his eyes. His hair is unkempt and matted to his head, like his dirty shirt and how it sticks to his body; neither Bruce nor his clothes have seen a wash in a very long time. It’s uncharacteristic because the kid takes such pride in his hair and clothes. Whoever this impostor is, he’s _not_ Bruce Wayne.

Much to his surprise, Selina takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Bruce looks down, embarrassed about his disheveled appearance and the awful smell.

“Have you told Alfred?” asks Selina.

“Told him what?”

“What happened to make you -” she motions to Bruce, “- like this. You were fine up until you went to the circus.”

Bruce turns rigid and a shade paler. He shrugs and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing happened at the circus.”

“You think he’ll judge you, or something?”

“Selina-”

“Do you think he’ll love you any less? Or, look down at you? Say it’s all your fault and you were stupid for allowing it to happen?”

Bruce’s mouth pinches shut, and he inhales a shaky breath, attempting to keep the tears in. What the heck was going on? Could Selina read minds?

Selina didn’t want to be the one to do it, the one to break Bruce out of his protective shell. However, she’s seen this one too many times with abused children living out in the streets. Ivy Pepper, for example, crossed paths with a pedophile and what he did to that poor girl… Ivy lived, but she was never the same again; Selina paid that particular pervert a visit and made sure he’d never put his hands on another child again. Kids these days just don’t know how to protect themselves, they’re not streetwise and they can’t spot the creepers.

Looking at Bruce in his current state, Selina could see all the telltale signs of an assault, possibly a sexual assault. He’s not eating, oversleeping, neglecting his hygiene, and being hyper vigilant; as weak as he is, Bruce looks like he’d make a run if Selina started throwing out accusations.

Best to tread carefully.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Selina says gently. This is the softest she’ll ever be because being kind is not her strong suit. “But it’s not your fault. Do you believe it Bruce, that it’s not your fault?”

Bruce swallows thickly and shrugs.

“Say it.”

“…. I-it’s not my fault.”

“Say it again.”

“I-it’s not my fault.”

“Again.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“Again!”

“IT’S NOT MY FAULT!” The dam breaks and tears explode soon after. Bruce hides his face in his hands and cries. 

Selina grabs Bruce in a tight embrace.

Bruce wraps his arms around Selina’s neck, and sobs into her shoulder. Loud, violent sobs. Heavy with emotion and heartbreaking on the ear.

There are no more words to say. Bruce’s reaction confirms Selina’s suspicions and she hugs her friend tighter, while rubbing circles against his back. It took Ivy months before she broke down and cried, thankfully Bruce is more sensitive. Thomas and Martha Wayne, Alfred included, they all did an amazing job raising Bruce. There’s strength in crying, of course, Selina would never admit that to Bruce because she herself, isn’t capable of crying. Like Ivy, Selina had to grow up fast or the streets would’ve consumed her by now.

They stay like that for a while. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, until Bruce’s cries softened to low sniffling. He’s the first to break the hug and grab his blanket, using it to wipe away the runny mucus under his nose. 

“Gross!” Selina remarks.

“Your face is gross.”

“Your room is gross.”

“Your jacket is gross.”

“Hey!” She reaches over and pinches Bruce’s cheekbone, causing him to squirm. “I’ll have you know I bought this from a very reliable street vendor. He said it’s a classy knockoff, nobody can tell the difference.”

“And by ‘bought’ you mean stole?”

“Uh oh, you got me.” Selina raises her hands above her head, “Somebody call the GCPD.”

Bruce smiles. It’s his first genuine smile since the circus.

Selina doesn’t like the way Bruce’s smile makes her face glow with heat, and she naturally returns the same, big, cheesy smile. It makes her uncomfortable. So, she switches topics. “I’ll always be your friend Bruce. I won’t judge you or think any different of you and if you ever want to talk about it…. I’m all ears.”

“Thank you, Selina. I appreciate it.”

“And don’t forget Alfred. He loves you and there isn’t anything you can do to change that. Got it?”

“Got it.” Bruce sighs heavily and hangs his head. “I um… I owe Alfred an apology.”

“You know where to find him.” Selina plucks one of the pillows from the bed and stands. “Now go wash up, you smell like roadkill.”

Bruce opens his mouth to make a witty retort, but Selina flings the pillow at his face. By the time he rips it off, Selina is sprinting out of the bedroom door, her laughter echoing down the hallway.

* * *

“Are you sure he’s okay?”

“Positive.”

“What did you say to him?”

Selina shrugs. She chomps down on a butterscotch oatmeal cookie, consuming the thing in two big bites. She chases it with milk and grabs her fourth cookie from a platter situated on the kitchen counter. “I hugged him…. Didn’t pester him to tell me what happened because he’s obviously not ready to talk about it.”

Alfred cringes.

“And-” Selina takes another bite of the delicious cookie, “-I tried this therapy trick.”

“Therapy trick?” He quirks an eyebrow, not because he’s doubtful, but because of how fast the child is scarfing down those cookies. He’s somewhat flattered, and somewhat concerned she’ll choke if she doesn’t eat smaller portions.

“Okay, so not exactly therapy since I’ve never been to therapy.” Selina finishes the cookie and picks up another. “It’s on a movie, I quoted a therapist, from a movie.”

“Oh…” Alfred’s voice borders on unimpressed. “Makes sense.”

“Hey! It’s a great movie! ‘Good Will Hunting’, have you ever seen it?”

Alfred shakes his head.

“It’s got Robin Williams in it, and he plays a therapist for troubled youth. Anyway, you gotta watch it Al. You might learn a thing or two about talking to kids.”

The butler snorts. “I doubt it.”

“Doubt what?” Bruce chirps from the kitchen entryway.

Selina and Alfred look at the raven, taking in his new appearance. Clean pajamas, washed hair, and his skin was clean, not as sticky and shiny as before. There’s a warmth present in his eyes and both could see it – a shower works wonders, apparently.

“I-I tossed my clothes and linens in the laundry chute.” Bruce glances down shyly.

“Ah, I’ll get started on it immediately. Thank you, Master B.” Alfred moves to exit the kitchen-

Bruce grips Alfred by his arm, “Wait.”

Alfred blinks and he turns to face his ward. He looks down with a patient smile. “Yes?”

“I…” Bruce exhales slowly, not meaning to tremble and for some reason he can’t let go of Alfred’s arm. “What I said earlier… When I yelled at you…. I didn’t mean it, Alfred. I’m sor-”

The elder abruptly pulls Bruce into his chest and hugs him. “It’s okay Bruce. You don’t have to apologize. You were coming from a place of hurt and I didn’t know it at the time.”

Bruce loops his arms around Alfred’s lower back and presses his face into the man’s stomach, hiding the tears that may fall. “You’re not angry at me?”

“No, what a daft thing to ask.” Alfred smiles and kisses the top of Bruce’s head. “I love you, dear boy. I could never stay angry at you and, as your friend suggested, you may speak to me whenever you’re ready. I will never push you again the way I did, and for that, I offer my sincerest apology.”

Ugh. Bruce might die of embarrassment. Alfred hasn’t kissed him on top of the head since he was seven years old, when he overhead an argument between him and Thomas and he assumed their beloved butler was going to leave the family for good. All it took was one kiss on the head to reassure him and set his worried mind at ease. To this day, it still has the same effect.

“Aww, how adorable. I wish I had a camera.” Selina frames her fingers together in a rectangle, with Alfred and Bruce in the center image.

Bruce turns beet red. He pulls away from the embrace and shoots Selina a warning look.

Selina grins and picks up the platter of cookies. “Alfred if you’d be so kind, can you refill my glass of milk? Me and Bruce are gonna watch a movie in the living room.”

“Right away, Miss Kyle.” Alfred tucks his hands behind his back and addresses Bruce. “Your stomach, cookies and milk might be too rich. Might I suggest water and toast to start you off? Followed by some vitamins.”

“Vitamins, gross.” Selina nudges Bruce in the side with her elbow and wanders out of the kitchen.

“Could you make it ten pieces of toast? Or the whole loaf, I’m fairly hungry Alfred.” Bruce pats his stomach.

“One loaf of bread, coming up.” Alfred picks up Selina’s empty glass and fetches the milk out of the fridge. He smiles to himself when he hears Bruce’s footsteps pad into the living room area to join Selina. For the first time in nearly a week, Alfred can breathe easily.

* * *

“Would you ever date a green alien?”

Bruce munches on toast, it’s his fifth slice. “Mmm…. No.”

“What if she’s as hot as Gamora?” Selina has the platter of cookies on her lap and she’s killed off half of them already. She’s wrapped in a blue fleece blanket whereas Bruce had a red one.

“Still a hard pass.” Bruce stares at the large flat screen, deeply invested in the movie they’re watching. It’s ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’, Selina’s pick, only because she didn’t like any of the options Bruce had in mind. He doesn’t care though; the movie is funny, and it has some decent action scenes.

“I would date Peter Quill, he’s fiiiiiine~”

Bruce snorts. “He’s not your type.”

“Oh?” Selina flicks a cookie crumb at Bruce. “You know my _type_?”

“Indeed, I do.” Bruce finishes his toast and takes a swig of water. He sets the glass down and glances at Selina. “Braindead.”

“What?!” Selina scoffs, “Unbelievable. C’mere you big jerk.” She leans over and playfully tries to smack Bruce’s over the head, but the raven leans away, staying out of her reach.

“You’re the biggest jerk,” smirks Bruce.

“Damn right, I’m the Queen of jerks.” Unable to reach Bruce, Selina opts to toss a cookie at him.

Bruce barely manages to dodge the flying dessert, and it sails over the couch until colliding into the bookcase.

“OI!” Alfred barks from kitchen, he’s in the middle of washing dishes. “Don’t waste my cookies! Those are meant for eating, not for play!”

Selina and Bruce erupt into a fit of giggles.

“How did he hear us from all the way in the kitchen?” Selina inquires.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says between laughter, “He’s got decent hearing I guess.”

“I’ll say.” Selina glances at the grandfather clock. “It’s late, I should get going soon. Hey, which floor has the guest bathroom?”

“Each floor has one, it’s either the 3rd or 4th door on the left.” Bruce curls up in his blanket while Selina sheds hers.

“Okay.” Selina sets the platter down on the coffee table and rises to her feet. She walks around the couch and down the hallway, in search of the guest bathroom.

Alfred finishes the dishes and steps into the living room. “Going to greenhouse, see if we have any fresh mint for tea. Would you like a cup?”

“No thanks, I’ll probably go to bed after Selina leaves.”

“Very well.” Alfred nods and makes his way to the east end of the manor, where the greenhouse is located.

Bruce is left alone and he doesn't mind. His eyes fall shut and he starts to doze off. 

That is, until Selina returns.

The raven doesn’t open his eyes, but he does hear footsteps and the couch shifts as his friend sits down in her spot. “That was fast,” he comments.

No answer.

Bruce had muted the T.V. when Selina left, so he lazily points to the coffee table where the remote is perched. “You can turn the volume up if you want.”

No answer.

Thinking it’s prank, Bruce frowns and impatiently asks, “Selina didn’t you say you were leaving or was that a joke too?”

_“Who is Selina?”_

It's not Selina. It's a man and the tone is much too soft and light to be Alfred. 

Bruce’s heart catapults into his throat the second he recognizes the voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't see it enough in Gotham but David Mazouz (Bruce) and Camren Bicondova (Selina) like to joke around with each other. Watch their interviews, the way they play off each other is adorable. So I wanted to incorporate that same energy in this chapter. 
> 
> As for the cliffhanger at the end, oh boy.... We know where this is going, don't we? >:3


End file.
